Things Behind the Sun
by C. Midori
Summary: Carter takes stock of his life and Abby finds herself missing from his count. Featuring love triangles, lovelorn!Luka, snarky!Susan, and more angst than you can shake a stick at. Sequel to Through the Door. AU set after Season 8. COMPLETE.
1. The Prison

TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (1/12)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK)

RATING: PG-13

SPOILERS: Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel _Through the Door._

ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: _Things Behind the Sun_ is the sequel to _Through the Door_ and A/U (Alternate Universe) for the end of Season Eight ("Lockdown") and all of Season Nine. (Translation: smallpox and skinny dipping never happened, at least not in my universe.) As such, all new kids on the block should note that none of the relationships in this story will make sense unless you've read the prequel. Moving right along, a big shoutout to the returning veterans, all of whom are collectively responsible for Mandatory Fun Time in the ER fandom. Muah. Outtakes, teasers, and a running director's commentary can be found at www.livejournal.com/~cmidori; candy apples to everyone who reviews; and insert your own Last Time on ER here.

SUMMARY: Brevity is the rule of thumb in the Prologue, which takes place an indeterminate amount of time after the events of _Through the Door, on a dark and stormy night..._

*          *          *

PROLOGUE          

The Prison

_We think of the key, each in his prison  
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison_

*          *          *

Abby awoke to darkness. Outside the rain was falling, falling--a cascade of needles shattering against the concrete of sidewalks and the glass of windows--but inside the room throbbed like a muffled heartbeat. Darkness and warmth pulsated behind the screen of quiet that shimmered just beyond the unmade bed, and geometric cuts of light fell through the cracks in long, uneven bars of white. 

She stirred, and stifled a yawn, and turned to peer at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Its glowing red numbers glared at her, bright as a camera flash. Two-thirty.

Noiselessly, she slid out of bed. The soles of her feet recoiled almost immediately against the icy coldness of the hardwood floors and she had to bite down hard to suppress the cry that rose in her throat. Steeling her naked body against the chill, she groped the darkness surrounding the bed and gathered her things one by one before slipping into the bathroom. The door snicked shut behind her.

Overhead, the light flickered on. She squinted at the reflection in the cabinet mirror: eyes glassy with sleep, hair falling around her face, the creases and folds of bed sheets stamped upon the impressionable plane of her skin. Bleary-eyed, she balanced herself against the sink and searched this reflection, as if she expected to see a different person and was surprised to see the same face from yesterday staring back at her today. 

Eventually she became aware again of the sink, cold beneath the palms of her hands, and she threw the mirror door open.

She used his toothbrush to scour her mouth, the taste of sex and sleep soon masked by mint, and used her fingers to rake a makeshift comb through her hair. Five more minutes and a turtleneck was tugged over her head, jeans buttoned around her waist, and a pair of worn running shoes secure in her hands as she crept back into the bedroom, the light flickering off behind her.

She stood without apology at the end of the bed, his bed, barefoot with her hair tumbling around her face. Swathed in shadows, his body stood out like an irregular silhouette printed against the whiteness of his bed sheets. In the near-lightless spill of the room he was alternately darkness and pallor, shadow and light--the charcoal-colored hair, the half-moons smudged under his eyes, the grains of stubble penciling the side of his jaw. His skin glowed white where the moon touched it, as if a lens had gathered the radiance of all the light in the room and concentrated it upon the slopes and valleys of his body, and this same skin disappeared into nothingness where there was an absence of this light. 

Her eyes held the imprint of the moment in her mind, like a black and white photograph. As always, the narrow space between want and need was unfamiliar territory for her, all at once attractive and revolting. She felt an unbearable tension in her chest--as if all the air had suddenly vacated the room, taking her with it--but for the time being she resisted its pull. She wanted to remember what she had done. She needed to remind herself never to do it again. Had he seen her face in this moment, surely he would have pulled her back to bed, peeled the layers of clothing from her body and buried himself in her to the hilt in protest, but she would have had none of it, anyway. It was not homecoming that tied them together, but imprisonment, in a cage with bars of light.

It hurt her eyes to stare so long. She did not let herself turn around again as she fled.

*          *          *

Credits: "Things Behind the Sun" owes its name to a Nick Drake song. Opening quotation nabbed from "The Wasteland" by T. S. Eliot. Scene inspired by the teaser of "all things," the episode of The X-Files both written and directed by Gillian Anderson.


	2. The Writing on the Wall

TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (2/12)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK)

RATING: PG-13

SPOILERS: For Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel _Through the Door._

ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Two notes about the prologue: (1) Unidentified Naked Man has either brown or black hair that _appears_ "charcoal-colored" in the darkened room (so don't jump to any conclusions), and (2) you're not meant to know when the scene takes place with respect to TTD _or_ TBtS. You won't know for some time so in the meantime feel free to be confused. :D Thanks and drink umbrellas to everyone who reviewed the prologue: the indomitable JD, Ceri, Dana, Kate, Rebecca, Jane, CARBYfan, and not-so-dumb-blonde. You don't know how much your reviews mean to me. Thanks also to Heather and pix for hosting. Questions, comments, concerns, suitcases full of unmarked twenties? Review! You can email me at socksless@hotmail.com, drop a review over at fanfiction.net under my pseudonym, or leave a comment at my fanfic journal (www.livejournal.com/~cmidori).

SUMMARY: The morning after and it's not Carter and Abby (sorry); apparently, Susan Lewis can lose; Luka learns how to use acronyms; Abby stands around in the rain and thinks Deep Thoughts; and Carter is busted, in more ways than one.

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

The Writing on the Wall

_This'll never end, this'll never stop  
Message read on the bathroom wall  
Says, "I don't feel at all like I fall."  
And we're losing all touch, losing all touch  
Building a desert_

* * *

_Late October._

The same dream again--blood and bone, bleak midnight and blinding light, the darkness at his feet rising and the world around him falling away. All he knew was pain--pain splintering up and down his back, twin blades cut like runners in ice; pain like broken glass screaming against the knuckles of an angry fist; pain in a mouth twisted with agony, in eyes narrowed to tear-shaped slits. 

Time faded the scars on his back but did not erase the memory of death from his sleep.

"John."

A reel of memories stretched out behind him but there was nothing left before him. Nothing but the weight of a body too much for his legs, knees staggering to the ground, wrists slamming against linoleum with a sickening crunch. 

"John, it's time to wake up."

There were things he didn't understand when he was eleven and when people left him, and there were things he didn't understand when he was twenty-eight and people still left him. Death came to him dressed in the skin of those he loved and lead the endless parade of people leaving his life.

"It's already seven."

It was always the same expression on her face. The same face that came to him again and again in those first few days after the stabbing, and during those long bleak stretches of time leading to Atlanta. She with the death-pale skin and the enormous eyes of fright, colorless and gray and dying, with her hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

"Get up, John."

His eyes fluttered open. Thickly, "Lucy?"

"Who's Lucy?"

Fuck.

"…John?"

He forced himself awake. Struggling to rise, he found himself peering up into a pair of dark slate eyes. They stared back at him with a mixture of curiosity and worry. "Nobody," he said, his voice thick with sleep, "She's nobody."

A cool palm glided across his forehead. "You okay?" it asked worriedly. "You don't feel so well."

"I'm fine," he said aloud, though later he would realize that there had not been a question. "Bad dream."

"Okay." A thoughtful pause and the removal of the hand. "Breakfast is ready when you want it."

He waited until the footsteps coupled with the silence. Rising, he disentangled himself from the sheets that knotted around his wrists. He crept to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and leaned over the toilet bowl to heave.

* * *

Carter smiled when he saw her seated at his kitchen table. Her head was bent over a stack of medical journals, hair like burnished gold in the citric light of the morning sun, and she wore nothing save an old dress shirt of his improperly buttoned. When she looked up at him, her eyes and her mouth smiled, all at once so sudden and easy that he found himself startled by it.

He walked over to where she sat. "Morning," he mumbled into her hair, leaning down to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek. 

She lifted her face to receive the kiss but did not tear her eyes from the page of text in front of her. "I hope you like your eggs sunny-side up," she said in reply. Her highlighter swept across the page.

"Mmm." He left another kiss by the side of her ear. "Sunny-side up sounds perfect," he whispered.

"Someone smells good," she murmured. "New cologne?"

"The one you gave me," Carter shrugged. He slid into the empty chair beside her and gratefully accepted a plate heaped with pancakes and eggs. The sun slanted onto his face, dispelling the remains of his sleep, and he thought the sensation very pleasant indeed.

"John?"

"Yeah?" he said, between mouthfuls of breakfast.

"Who's Lucy?"

Fuck, he thought, for the second time this morning. He swallowed his food and tried to look impassive, his appetite disappearing as fast as the color that filled the space between the thin lines of his face. "What?"

"You said something about…Lucy…earlier…" She trailed off and looked at him expectantly.

His brown eyes flickered beneath her solid gray gaze. He was the first to break away. "I don't know anyone named Lucy," he shrugged. His fork stabbed at his food.

A noncommittal sound escaped her throat as she returned to her journal. A moment passed before she spoke up again. "Are we still on for tonight?"

Carter felt himself relax as he received his usual reprieve. "Of course."

"Is something bothering you, John?"

"I'm off at seven." He ignored the unexpected second wave.

"You can talk to me, you know," she pressed, her eyes boring holes into his

His voice sounded strange to his own ears. "It's formal, right?"

She gave him one last sharp look before surrendering. "Yeah."

"How about I meet you at your place?"

"Sounds good. The function starts at eight. Maybe you should change at County?"

Carter nodded his ascent. He felt her heel rub affectionately against his; it was her belated apology for prying. 

"I'm glad you're coming," she spoke up, her tone conciliatory. "It should be a great event. We're raising a lot of money for the Peds ward and--"

"It doesn't mean anything," he reminded her.

She paused. "I know."

"I'm happy at County."

"I know," she repeated. "But who knows? You may end up liking us."

"Who?"

"My colleagues. They'll all be there."

"Your colleagues," he echoed.

"They could be your colleagues, too," she reminded him gently. "Just say the word."

Swallowing, he gave her a weak smile. "I told you. I like County."

"I don't know, John," she mused, playing with the corner of a page. "Long hours, crappy pay, general lack of appreciation."

"What can I say," Carter shrugged, "I'm a glutton for punishment."

"You know, at Northwestern--"

"I'll think about it, okay?" he interrupted.

"As long as you think about it soon." She put down her journal and looked at him seriously. "You can't be Chief Resident forever, John. And County's not looking for another Attending."

"Don't remind me." A pause. "You've given this a lot of thought."

"I know how much your career means to you." She squeezed his hand. "It was all you ever talked about when we were in high school."

Her comment startled him, as if he was suddenly and painfully forced to bear the weight of all those years and all that change. Rising from his place, he let his hand slip out of hers. He walked his plate over to the sink and felt her eyes on him the entire time. 

"Leave it," she said.

"My place," he tapped his fork against the sink, "my dirty dishes, my responsibility."

Carter heard the scrape of wood against tile. A pair of warm arms slipped around his waist. "Leave it…please?"

The plate unwillingly slipped out of his hands. Making a small sound of mock frustration, he turned around. "Stop it," he grumbled.

"Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed." Her voice dropped to a hush. "Maybe I can fix that." 

Tiptoeing slightly, she kissed the side of his mouth.

Carter stared at some place beyond the bright glint of her hair. He heard the sound of blood rushing through his head, drowning out the promises he now made to himself on a daily basis. Leave it, he thought fiercely, pushing away the darkness that came to him in his sleep. Leave it all behind; leave everything that did not touch this woman who knew him when he was eleven but not when he was twenty eight.

"I love it when you wear the pants in this relationship," he heard himself say. Her hands danced along his spine.

"Well," she leaned up to claim his mouth, "I love it when you don't."

Almost mechanically, his fingers reached for the hem of her shirt. "Good taste," he commented, easing the shirt off her shoulders, "This one's my favorite."

"I couldn't find anything else to wear." She shook her hair free from its clip and glanced up at him with an easy smile on her face. "You don't mind, do you?"

Carter felt his heart hammer against his chest as he opened his mouth to meet hers. He found his hands reaching out to undo the clasp of her bra and push the hair away from her face as he lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around him.

"No, Phil--I don't mind."

* * *

"I _do _mind," Susan snapped angrily at the phone pressed against her ear. "This is the third time you've stood me up in the last week." 

She felt a tug at her elbow. Winding the cord of the phone around her finger, she turned around and found Carter giving her a curious look, a garment bag slung over one shoulder and a coffee in his hand.

"I'm okay," she mouthed at him, before returning to the phone. "Look, I waited for you for half an hour this morning…no, I'm at work right now, I'm just about to start my shift in…no, don't bother coming down…what?"

The last "what" was directed at Carter, who still hovered at her elbow. "Susan?"

She covered the mouthpiece with her free hand. "I'm sorry, Carter. I've got to take care of this first." She paused, her face scrunched up in frustration. "And I'm not on for another five minutes," she added.

"Are you sure--"

"Five minutes," Susan reminded him, taking her hand off the mouthpiece. "I don't think…what is that supposed to mean?" A pause. "You know what?" she spat into the receiver, "You obviously have the mental capacity of a stuffed iguana. I don't think we should see each other anymore. No, I'm not kidding. Yeah, have a great day. Bye."

She hung up the phone.

Carter grinned at her. 

"Don't look at me with that tone of voice," Susan said wearily.

"Trouble in paradise?" He followed her in the direction of the lounge.

"Awfully liberal definition of paradise you've got going there." 

He shrugged, the garment bag bouncing against the back of his shoulder. "Look on the bright side--"

"Carter," she interrupted him. "There is no bright side when you're about to begin a thirty-six hour shift."

The lounge door swung open. "So I take it that things didn't work out between you and Joe from Neurology."

"You are, as always, the master of understatement," Susan sighed, dumping a scoop of coffee grounds into the machine. "No, things didn't work out with Joe from Neurology."

"I'm sure you'll find someone."

"Well, we're not all meant to find love in the work place."

Carter opened his locker. "Was that a veiled hint about me and--"

"Abby?" Susan offered. "No."

"Oh," he hung his bag.

"It was an obvious hint."

Carter ignored her.

Susan yanked open the refrigerator door. "What's going on between you too, anyway?"

"We're friends, if that's what you mean," he shrugged on his lab coat.

"That's not what I mean," she said in a sing-song voice, her head buried in the contents of the refrigerator. "Dammit, who used the last of the dairy creamer?"

"Then say what you mean," Carter said evenly.

Susan emerged from the refrigerator, the side of her face white with light. "You're in love with her and you can't live another moment without her," she said solemnly, her mouth quirking at the memory of those familiar words. 

"Right," Carter laughed. He slung his stethoscope around his neck and slammed his locker shut. "I've heard that one before." He gave her a smile and walked into the ER.

"Funny, because I haven't," Susan said aloud to the empty room, before turning to her coffee.

* * *

Stifling a yawn, Abby leaned against the steel chair propped beneath her and tried hard to look like she was interested in hearing yet another yarn of alcohol-induced woe. She wasn't the only one having trouble keeping her concentration. In front of her a woman's head jerked up and down as she nodded off to sleep, and a man with dark hair sat across the aisle with his head bent deep in thought over a crossword. Abby raised an eyebrow and smiled at the familiar scene.

Finally, the hour came to its conclusion and she joined the sluggish line of people filing out the door. A thin beam of gray light hit her eye as she found herself staring directly into an overcast sky.

She felt a touch on her elbow. Startled, she spun around. "Luka," she said, failing to keep the surprise out of her voice. "What are you doing here?" She paused, then cut him off before he could reply. "Wait, let me guess: you were joyriding through the streets of Chicago and just happened to be in the neighborhood."

"Something like that," Luka grinned, jangling his car keys. "Want a ride?"

"My mother always told me never to ride with strangers," said Abby.

"I'm not that strange," he protested.

"Beg to differ," she responded playfully as they began walking toward his car. "So what brings you over to the dark side?"

Luka unlocked the passenger side door. He looked faintly embarrassed as he opened the door for her. "I wanted to see you…at your AA meeting," he corrected himself.

"AA," Abby said automatically, stepping into the car.

"That's what I said," he replied, looking confused.

"Sorry." She hid her grin. She beckoned for him to close the door. "C'mon, let's go."

Luka trotted over to the driver's side and slid in. "I didn't actually go into the meeting," he explained. "I didn't know if I was allowed." They pulled into the street.

"You're allowed." Absently, Abby stared out the window and watched the familiar Chicago scenery roll by. "It's just a bunch of sharing and caring."

"Sounds like fun."

"Oh yeah, real fun," she laughed dryly. "Fun for the whole family."

Uncertain, he kept his glance on the road. "Do you like it?"

"Like it?" Abby laughed again. "Nobody actually _likes_ being a drunk, Luka."

He looked at her quickly, embarrassed again. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she shrugged. She resumed her scenery gazing. 

They stopped at a light. "I didn't know there were so many people," Luka admitted.

"Yeah," Abby said absently, "I'm not the most original screw-up in the world."

Lightly, "You're not a screw-up."

"Says you," she countered.

"Says me," Luka confirmed, with a ghost of a smile.

She turned her head and grinned at him. "How'd you know where to find me?"

"Carter." Luka glanced sideways. The look of surprise that flitted across Abby's face did not go unnoticed by him. "I asked him."

"Oh," she said. "I didn't know you two were on speaking terms."

"Why wouldn't we be?" His car stopped at another light and he turned to look at her.

She hesitated. "No reason," she said finally, and changed the subject. "Are you working today?"

"I have a night shift at eight. You're working too?"

"Yeah," answered Abby.

"We could…get something to eat before our shift?"

"Sure," she agreed readily. Turning her gaze back outside the window, she watched as a strong wind clipped the leaves from trees and rattled bare branches in violent claps of thunder.

"Magoo's?" he suggested.

A few fat drops of water splattered against the window. "Not Magoo's," Abby said, after a moment.

Luka felt his eyes turn to her. Her gaze was distant, her hands small and white and clasped in her lap, and her expression thoughtful. Dizzily, he saw the look upon her face and had to resist the urge to reach over and take hold of her hand.

"What?" Abby turned toward him. "What's the matter?"

"What?" he said back.

"You're staring."

Luka only shook his head.

* * *

The ambulance bay was cold and empty in the waning half-light. Long blue shadows flattened themselves along its concrete planes and bent in haphazard strips of darkness and light along its angles, giving the bay the appearance of peeling paint. Susan winced against the cold as she stood just outside the doors to the ER and pulled on her gloves.

"Susan," Carter jogged outside to meet her.

"I'm on my break," she said automatically.

"A couple of your bounce-backs need to be discharged," he shivered, handing her some clipboards. "We need the beds."

"Right," she muttered. She took his pen and signed off on the charts quickly. "There you go."

"For me?" he pointed at the box tucked under her arm. "You shouldn't have."

"Unless you want to trade in your Jeep for a pink Barbie convertible, I suggest you keep your hands to yourself," Susan answered with a wry smile.

Carter laughed. "Is this for Suzie?"

"It's her birthday," she confirmed, a sudden surge of happiness distracting her from the cold. "I've got to get this to the post office before it closes."

"Yeah, sure, no problem," he said immediately, noticing the wistful smile that crossed her face. "Take your time."

Susan shook her head and held the box to her chest. "What?"

Carter hesitated. "You really miss her," he said quietly. "Don't you?"

He saw her waver uncertainly for a moment. But he blinked and this uncertainty was gone, replaced by her usual wry grin. 

"Of course I miss her," she said off-handedly. "She's my niece."

Carter nodded as she gave him another smile and turned around to walk away.

* * *

Rain was falling steadily in long leaden needles of water by the time Luka dropped Abby off at her apartment. She showered and grabbed an umbrella on her way out the door, but managed to find herself soaked by the time she made her way off the El train and down the stairs toward County. 

A pencil-gray darkness flowed all around her and the wind cut through her raincoat like tiny daggers. A chill crept up the cuffs of her coat to raise goose pimples on her arms. Buildings cast iron-clad shadows across her face as she crossed the ambulance bay and wet leaves swirled loosely at her ankles. But she paid the world little attention as she stopped to stand in the middle of the bay, water pelting the side of her face and a broken umbrella dangling from one hand, for her eyes were diverted elsewhere.

The light behind him and the impending darkness before him, a man stood silhouetted against the stark fluorescent backdrop of the hospital like a dark stem pressed between two sheets of glass. His head was bent and a stethoscope swung forgotten around his collar, the familiar lines of his body sharp against her eyes. Closing her eyes briefly, she stopped and held the image in her head.

When she opened them again, he was smiling at her.

Her lungs filled painfully with the cold air as the doors slid open. "You look cold," Carter greeted her.

"You look nice," she returned, joining him under the shelter of his proffered umbrella. "You off already?"

"Yeah." He fidgeted with a bowtie. "Is this thing straight?"

She felt herself lean further into the cover of the umbrella as she reached up to adjust his tie. Her fingers were wet and cold with the rain and she wiped them against the dry sleeve of her turtleneck beneath the coat she wore. Her fingers tugged at the bow, her knuckles brushing against the soft skin at his throat. "It is now."

"Thanks." Carter cleared his throat. She felt it humming beneath her fingertips.

Abby withdrew her hands. "Where are you going?"

He gave a barely perceptible pause before clearing his throat. "Charity ball," he answered, nonchalant.

"Another charity ball?" She tried hard to keep the surprise out of her voice and realized, with a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach, that she was succeeding completely. "I think there are programs for people like you."

"Only if you promise to be my sponsor," he flashed a purposely boyish grin in her direction.

"Never again," she laughed, shaking her head. 

"It wasn't so bad the first time around," said Carter, clutching his chest in mock-hurt. 

"No," she agreed, "it wasn't." Faltering, she tucked a wet piece of hair behind an ear. "Where's your date?"

"No date," he said neutrally. 

Abby tugged playfully at the stethoscope slung around his neck. "Is this a costume ball?"

Carter reddened, and slid the instrument off his neck. "No." He stared at her, his eyes dark and sparkling with rainwater. She shifted uncomfortably under his stare. "Night shift?" he asked finally.

"I prefer to think of it as trial by fire."

"Well, you know what they say," he said encouragingly, "Time flies when you're--"

"Irrigating pus wounds, I know," she deadpanned as they walked toward the ER. "Thanks for the sentiment."

The glass doors slid open. Unexpectedly, Carter took hold of her hand and pressed something into it. He smiled at her and turned to walk away. It wasn't until the doors had closed again that Abby looked down. Water sliding down her face, she bent her head to find his stethoscope tucked into her palm, still warm from his grasp.

* * *

"Hey, watch it, Pratt!" Susan ducked her head, a good-natured scowl on her face, as she narrowly avoided decapitation via bed pan. "No flying projectiles in the hallways."

"Sorry." Jerry gave her an apologetic smile as Pratt went off running after the makeshift Frisbee. 

"Didn't know hall monitor was part of the job description." Abby gave a little hop as a bed pan whizzed by her feet. 

"Hall monitor, warden for the mentally unsound, bearer of bad news--it all kind of comes with the job," Susan explained.

"I see," Abby dodged into the lounge, the sound of breaking glass behind her.

"Jerry!" Susan yelled. Wearily, she followed Abby to her locker. "It's a little slow tonight."

"Knock on wood."

Susan leaned against the row of lockers. "So how was the meeting?"

Abby shrugged, her voice muffled as she unwound the scarf around her neck. "Painless."

"Sorry I couldn't be there."

"It's okay," Abby assured her. "You don't have to be there. They don't take attendance."

"Damn. I was really gunning for that Perfect Attendance Award, too."

"Overachiever."

"Deadbeat," Susan returned good-naturedly. "You know, I actually like going. It kills time."

"Are you telling me," Abby smiled, shrugging off her coat, "that you don't have anything better to do with your life than work your deadbeat alcoholic friend through her steps?"

"Nope," Susan said brightly.

"Whatever happened to Joe from Neurology?"

"The last time I saw him he was wearing a sweater and an idiotic grin. And the sweater was new."

"Ouch." Amused, Abby slammed her locker shut and followed Susan out into the ER.

"Tell me about it." Susan looked glum. "Sometimes I really hate the human race."

Abby looked amused. "We're not all bad. Some of us perform random acts of kindness."

"Well, nobody's performed a random act of kindness for me lately."

"Susan, you've got a seventy year old male with foot fungus in curtain three." Dr. Weaver walked by, dropping the chart in Susan's hands.

"See?" Susan turned pointedly to Abby. "Kerry, can't we let Pratt get this one?"

"Pratt's not on," Weaver called behind her as she disappeared around the corner.

Susan and Abby exchanged glances. "Gallant," they said in unison.

* * *

"_Jerk_. Seven letters."

"Starts with?"

"A."

"Asshole."

From behind his crossword, Luka raised an eyebrow at Abby.

Innocent, Abby looked at him. "What?"

"Agitate," he shook his head, his pen carefully filling the empty blocks. But he was smiling.

"I was close." Smiling in return, she leaned over the counter of the admit desk to peek at his magazine. "You do your crosswords in pen?"

"Yep," he said, not looking at her. "_At the front_. 5 letters."

"Impressive," Abby remarked.

"Not on company time," Susan clucked, her hands full of coffee. "Heads will roll."

"Ahead," Luka murmured to himself. "Thanks, Susan."

"Slow night," Abby protested airily as Susan handed her a cup. "Crossword with us."

Susan shook her head and the water from her hair. "I suck at crosswords," she said, slightly breathless. "Son of a bitch, it's storming outside," she said, handing another cup to Luka.

"Thanks," he said automatically.

"Joe called while you were out," Abby waved a piece of paper at Susan, "Begging for your forgiveness."

"Ugh," Susan made a face. "I hope you gave him a piece of your mind."

Abby looked guilty. "I told him you'd call him back."

Susan took the piece of paper and crumpled it into the trash. "Call who back?" she said innocently.

Abby grinned.

Yawning, Susan plunked herself on a stool and glanced at her watch. Midnight. "I can't believe I've struck out two times in the last three weeks," she mused aloud. "This has got to be some kind of all-time personal low.

"James called, too." Abby examined another slip of paper. "He called to say he had to cancel this weekend."

"Oh, no, here's a lower place," Susan sighed.

"At least you've been at bat," Abby pointed out reasonably.

Susan looked at her slyly. "Well, you _could_--"

Abby cut her off. "Susan, I swear to god," she said warningly, "if you say one more thing about--"

Susan held up her hands in mock surrender. "I'm just saying."

Abby was about to respond when Jerry piped up behind them. "Incoming trauma. MVA. Drunk driver versus Jeep. Drunk's already dead, but they're bringing the other two passengers here. ETA five minutes."

Wordlessly, the three of them exchanged glances and dumped the rest of their coffee.

* * *

Abby stood sandwiched between Susan and Luka as the three of them huddled together under an overhanging, two gurneys waiting behind them and violent lashes of water whipping against their faces. Rain fell against the earth in solid sheets of liquid metal, and the sound of water hitting concrete was deafening to their ears. Abby could barely see anything beyond the bay but in the distance she thought she heard the wail of an ambulance car drawing near.

Soon, she saw the flicker of lights refracting against the puddles of water and she found herself soaked to the bone as she pushed a gurney through the rain. She gulped water and not air, and her breath came in gasps--something was terribly wrong. Dimly, she was aware of Luka throwing her a concerned look, his face like a white smudge in the darkness, but she ignored it and stumbled backwards when the doors to the ambulance car burst open.

She felt herself shoved aside as the first patient rolled out. A woman in her late twenties or early thirties, her eyes the color of rain and her hair matted with blood, still conscious and breathing. Abby strained to hear the bullet but could not make out a voice above the roar of the rain. 

Susan waived her off and hollered at her to get the next one.

Nodding, Abby flung her hands out and reached for the second gurney. She grimaced at the biting, metallic smell of blood that assaulted her nose. Brushing the water from her eyes, she looked over at Luka, who was staring at her with a peculiar expression on his face. 

Dimly, Abby wondered why he was looking at her like that. 

The rain pounded harder against her eyes. She looked down and heard the shock in her voice before the name tumbled from her lips.

"_Carter_."

* * *

CREDITS: Opening quotation from "Custom Concern" by Modest Mouse. "Don't look at me with that tone of voice" and the comment about Joe's sweater are both nicked from the movie _Playing By Heart_ (*drools over Jon Stewart*). "Here's a lower place" is from Buffy (I think).


	3. Low Road

TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (3/12)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK)

RATING: PG-13

SPOILERS: For Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel _Through the Door._

ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Sorry for the wait. The dog ate my fanfic? ;D Thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter One: JD, Rebecca, Sara, Cat, Christe, Emma Stuart, Duchess, not-so-dumb-blonde, CARBYfan, kate, ceri, em, charlotte, Carolyn, Anna, and Alanna. I adore you all unrestrainedly. Chapter Two is dedicated to JD, em, charlotte, and Nadine, all of whom make the LJ a hugely entertaining place. Y'all are muchly appreciated. Things To Know: (1) Phil is first introduced in TTD Chapter Six (blink and you'll miss her); (2) Please ignore the medical inconsistencies and/or untruths during the trauma scene or any other part of this chapter. I suck at writing medicine (What's a cross-table c-spine? Does Northwestern really have an ER?) but I couldn't get around it this time. My excuse is that I write fiction. Ha. Thanks in advance for your forgiveness. Love is all I need. Please review. :)

SUMMARY: Luka reflects, Carter bleeds, Susan recognizes, and Abby flees.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

Low Road Descending

_as__ someone sets light to the first fire of autumn   
we settle down to cut ourselves apart.   
cough and twitch from the news on your face   
and some foreign candle burning in your eyes._

_held__ to the past too aware of the pending   
chill as the dawn breaks and finds us up for sale.   
enter the fog another low road descending   
away from the cold lust, you house and summertime. _

* * *

Luka knew faces. 

Bruised, blood-letting and battered, some days they were all he saw. The faces of neighbors and friends and family. Tragic. Always and properly. Victims and martyrs all, trees in the dead of winter, silent and bleak, ghosts of their former selves. They did to him what the moon did to the tides, were as real as smoke and mirrors, ripped into him like licks of fire on moth wings. He had the burns on his hands to prove it.

To be correct, there were happy times. Birthdays and hammocks and Danijela's infamous _rožata _beneath sapphire summer skies. The lilt of his mother's voice as she read to him by candlelight; the strong, study hands of his father holding him tight as he hung halfway out of a train cutting a path through the beautiful Croatian countryside. 

But happiness was a blur, a rush of color and water and too much time gone by, and in the end it was always the pain he remembered best.

Luka needed no more than a moment to learn this, to learn that each person's pain (including his own) was distinct--a stamp upon their face, a fingerprint in blood. Quiet Marko with his dirt-smeared cheeks and earnest smiles; Jasna, who went around with bare feet and open arms; Danijela--

There was Danijela.

Sweet, strong Danijela, whose brand of beautiful had less to do with the way she looked and more to do with the way she carried herself; who loved and was loved; who looked perfectly in place next to him every Sunday mass, all clasped hands and dreamy smiles. The light that fell through colored glass always lit a ring of gold upon her bent head, a sublime acquiescence to the ethereal, otherwordly Mary-spirit within her. 

When that spirit fled her, he had wept. He could not understand why the earth had laid a claim to her body. Marko and Jasna he had made, and so the world could unmake, but Danijela was never his to be stolen in the first place. 

Bruised, blood-letting and battered, victims and martyrs all. 

It was no wonder he turned to Abby.

Abby was as dark as Danijela had been bright. Abby grew up on latchkeys and microwave dinners. Abby never wore pain on her face--she buried it beneath anger and impatience and silence. Abby told him it was okay to hide the bruises and it was okay to die inside, just as long as you cleaned up the blood. 

And Luka believed her. It was easier to just go along, harder to fight, and after awhile he knew all the steps by heart. He never knew the dance. He never really minded. He wasn't looking for another Danijela. 

Were things so different now? Abby was not his, but he wasn't stupid--he knew he never really had her. She was not the type to be owned, that she might be bartered and bargained against her will, and not the type to own in return. She would never wish that kind of torture upon another person. It didn't make a difference to him. A long time had passed since he owned anyone and was owned in return, and look where it got him: a one-way ticket to hell and he was still working on the return trip. 

He didn't think he could make the trip alone. He needed to find someone to come back with him. He wanted that person to be Abby.

Abby wasn't a victim, wasn't a martyr. She would never let herself become that. She moved ahead, left behind, never looked back, shoved all the bitterness and pain deep inside of her until you couldn't even see it reflected in the dark curve of her pupils. He wanted someone like Abby. To help him move on, help him forget the faces. Make him forget the faces. Marko, Jasna, Danijela. Until hers was the only face he knew. Her expressionless face. A face without pain.

It was what he sought but it was not what he found. For under a sky of darkness and of flood, Luka found himself looking for Abby and finding the face of a stranger--a stranger who wore pain upon her face as if she thought no one was looking, a stranger who wore the kind of pain he had worn so many lifetimes ago.

Luka looked at Abby looking at Carter and recognized the expression on her face. It was the same expression he had worn when Danijela had died. 

* * *

Everything was happening too slowly, too fucking slowly.

Darkness and flood. The sky sagging under the weight of it all. A lull. Quiet, deadly, insistent.

Abby stood in her drenched scrubs and sopping hair and did nothing. 

So much water. So much blood. This was drowning.

Numbed with shock and cold, Abby pushed the wet hair from off her face and did not flinch at the sudden clap of thunder. She was there--she was there with the concrete and the water and the night--but she was somewhere else. She was back with Maggie. Rolling Maggie into the ER. Feeling as if nothing would be worth it, nothing would ever be worth it again, if she didn't walk her mother back out again through those same doors.

But this is different, she told herself. This isn't Maggie. This is Carter. 

Carter, she choked.

There. She had managed his name. She didn't think she could manage more.

It seemed minutes, but it was only a matter of seconds before she heard the paramedic hollering in her face, raising his voice above the roar of the storm. "You know this guy?"

Abby couldn't help herself; she snapped back. "You don't?"

"Abby," Luka said, his voice sharp, "Let's get him inside."

"MVA." The paramedic chose--rather wisely, she thought--to pay no attention to either of them as he rolled the gurney out of the truck. "Drunk driver versus Jeep. Male, late twenties or early thirties, no identification found on the scene--"

"His name is Carter," she heard herself say. "John Carter." And then they were in the ER, the light white and hot and pressing against her head.

"--Pulse ox is ninety," he ignored her, "BP's stable, good breath sounds, looks like a couple of minor rib fractures, possible head trauma. We couldn't get to him right away--the roads were closed thanks to the storm. I don't know how much blood he's lost already."

Carter stirred. Abby reached for his hand. 

"Carter?" she said, willing him to press back against the pressure of her fingertips. "Do you know where you are?"

She watched him drag the oxygen mask off his face with a shaky hand. "I'm at County," he rasped.

"Put that back on." She gave him a weak smile. "Do you know what happened?"

The doors to the trauma room pushed open. Through bleary coin-sized slits, Carter was looking at her and not at her. It was slightly unnerving. So was the blood trickling from the side of his head.

"Where's Phil?" he managed, before she slipped the mask back over his mouth.

Phil?

"Get me a CBC, Chem 7, cross table c-spine, chest x-ray, CT," Luka hesitated, "and a tox screen."

Abby heard the anger crackle in her voice like a live wire. "Luka."

"What?"

"He wasn't drinking."

"Page Corday," Luka said, after a reed-thin pause, "We'll need a surgical consult."

"You don't need to do a tox screen," Abby repeated, vehement.

Luka ignored her. "Carter, can you hear me?"

Carter's eyes flickered back and forth between the two. "I'm bleeding, not deaf."

The corners of Luka's mouth twitched. "Well, we're going to do something about the bleeding, then. Abby?"

It took Abby a moment to hear what Luka had said. She caught notice of her hands. Blood. All of it, Carter's blood. Blood-red poppies flowered upon the lines of her palms and angry crimson lines slitting the curve of her wrists. 

She swallowed hard.

Everything was happening too fucking slowly.

* * *

When Phil awoke, what was most immediately apparent to her was not the eerie still of predawn or the stark whiteness of the room but the massive headache that lashed at her temples. Groggily, she sat up. Firm hands and a kind voice forced her to lie back down. A mild concussion, the voice explained.

Mild, my ass, Phil grumped. She felt as if a manatee had launched itself at her forehead--repeatedly. But she didn't say anything to the woman who stood by her bed, fair head bent as her pen scratched across a chart. Susan Lewis. 

Phil knew the woman. Met her and liked her. Phil remembered meeting her for the first time nearly a decade ago, when Susan was a Resident and Phil was a med student who left County to pursue a stint at Northwestern. If she wasn't mistaken (and she rarely was), Susan had almost been _her resident, until a last-minute opportunity presented itself. _

(Thank God for small miracles.)

Susan was blonder than Phil remembered. But that didn't keep Phil from remembering a name. Phil never forgot a name. Or a sense of humor. Thankfully, Susan had both.

Susan was still talking, her voice a pleasant and easy dream to the ear, like music or spring wind. Absently, Phil pried her eyes open. She realized, with a sudden and intense shock of dismay, that they had had to cut her favorite evening gown apart.

Son of a bitch, she swore violently to herself. Half a month's salary.

And in a heartbeat, she remembered why she was wearing the dress in the first place.

"Susan, Susan," she interrupted, "Where's John?"

"John?" Susan looked up, her brow furrowed. "Who's John?"

"Carter," Phil sputtered, the pitch in her voice rising to hysteria, "Where's Carter?"

A dreadful silence followed, broken only by the sound of the chart clattering to the floor.

* * *

Susan muttered a half-apology before backing out of the room and turning on her heel, her head throbbing as she made her way blindly to the admit desk. Yanking down the board, her eyes scanned the glass surface for the familiar name. Her breath caught when her eyes clapped upon it.

Distantly, she heard the clack of her own heels against linoleum as she made her way to the trauma room, her mind compressed with past and present realities that refused to meld without the passage of time, like strata of rock. 

But time was one thing that Susan didn't have. She had already wasted five years of it, and she didn't think she wanted to waste any more.

When Susan left County, she left not only for Chloe and Suzie, but for herself. She had no real reason to stay in Chicago. She had never been terribly close to either Carol or Doug--they were always more wrapped up in each other than anything else--and when push came to shove, she admitted that she and Mark were moving in different directions. She loved her work, but it didn't have to be County, and it didn't have to be Chicago.

Besides, it was all about distance: how much and how fast and how far. The more miles she stamped on her Frequent Flyers card, the more she was convinced that she had to be getting somewhere, either on airplanes or in life. And she needed to be getting somewhere in life.

She flew across country looking for--what? Certainly not what she found: a new life in Phoenix more or less identical to the one she had left in Chicago, with minor variations on a theme. Not Carol, but Julie; not Doug, but David; not Mark…

Well, there was no one for Mark. But Susan had already known that before she left.

So she flew again. A thousand more miles to her name and a few less people in her life. Chloe and Suzie had their own lives and Susan couldn't keep pretending like theirs were also hers. With nowhere to go, she came back to the only city that had ever attempted to claim ownership of her, but failed the first time around. Hello, Windy City. It owed her.

Outside an exam room, she slowed to a stop, as did her thoughts. She folded her arms across her chest and stared into the room and realized that for all her years of emptiness she was getting paid back in full, in a way she never knew existed since Mark and the circle of her family, all of whom were so gone from her life now: the pain of loving the people around her.

Inside the room there were two people, one dark and beautiful and bent like a dead flower, the other as sure and steadfast and unmovable as granite, and Susan couldn't help thinking that nothing good could come out of this, that flowers never grew out from under rocks, and that she had to be there for the inevitable fallout when it happened. And it _would happen, if such things could be predicted from the look upon a face; Susan was sure that such things could be predicted from the look upon this particular face, so obviously smitten in a defensive and reluctant and vulnerable sort of way._

Susan was looking for a reason to stay. Looking at Abby's face, she knew she found it.

* * *

In hindsight, the danger of what was happening to Abby was abundantly clear. If she had stopped to reflect upon her life, she might've seen something there she didn't like, and maybe she would've fought it. Actually, knowing her, she definitely would've fought it. It was in her nature to fight against anything that meant filling the holes, fixing the tears, healing the wounds in her life. Holes, tears, wounds--hell, whatever--it didn't matter what she called it. The fact remained that she was used to them, wasn't sure if she knew how to live without them, and wasn't sure if she wanted to find out.

But tonight, some part of her didn't want to fight anymore, was tired of fighting, so instead she let herself worry and fear and want. She did it not because she wanted to, but because she had no other choice. 

He had that kind of effect on her.

"How's he doing?"

Wearily, Abby lifted her head from her vigil, her face white and drawn from exhaustion. "Broken leg and head trauma. He'll be fine," she said, before returning her gaze back to Carter.

"I didn't know he was involved." Susan let the door fall shut behind her. "Phil mentioned his name and--"

Susan watched as Abby blinked in acknowledgement. "Phil?"

"The other patient," Susan clarified. "We rolled her in first."

Something like a spark flared briefly in Abby's eyes before fading and dying. "Phyllis Weston?"

Leaning against the door, Susan rubbed tiredly at her eyes. "Yeah. Bruising along the seatbelt and a mild concussion. Nothing too serious."

"From Northwestern?"

"Yeah," Susan looked surprise. "Did you meet her this summer?"

"What's she like?" Abby asked, her face neutral.

"I don't know." Susan stifled a yawn. "I only met her briefly."

Abby leaned her head against the wall, her eyes dark and unflinching as everything fell into place. Things more immediate, like the charity event and the black tie splattered with blood; and things less so, like the strange and subtle shift in their friendship over the last month. She couldn't quite explain it because she didn't know if he had changed or if she had. Probably both.

"She seemed friendly," Susan yawned again, interrupting Abby's thoughts. "Really funny, and--"

"She's dating Carter."

"--a bitch. She seemed like a real bitch," Susan blurted, her face frozen in a half-yawn. "I hate her already." She clamped her mouth shut. 

The corners of Abby's mouth turned upward, although she didn't smile. "Don't do it on my account."

Susan pushed herself away from the door and walked toward Abby until only Carter's bed separated them. "I didn't know he was seeing anyone."

"Me neither," Abby said. Tiredly, she pushed her hair away from her face.

Susan looked into Abby's face. For the first time in their friendship, she watched Abby visibly struggle to maintain her composure.

"Oh my god," Susan whispered, her face half-constricted in realization and her hands balling themselves into fists inside her white jacket. "You're--"

The door to the exam room opened. "Abby?" Luka stuck his head in. "We've got another trauma coming in."

* * *

From time to time, Luka stole uneasy glances at Abby as they finished up the death kit. Ever since they rolled Carter in, she had hardly spoken a word to him all night. That wasn't what was bothering him. (He was used to that. He knew her well enough by now to know that her silence meant that she was angry about something--possibly him--but didn't want to talk about it.) No, what was really bothering him was the fact that she looked so _weary_. Her body moved with a bone-fragile tiredness, her eyes unusually dark and luminous in her peaked face, and every movement seemed an enormous effort.

Luka remembered only one other time when he saw that look upon her face--when she and Carter brought Maggie into the ER.

"You know, you could at least try to be a little less obvious about the staring."

Startled, Luka stared at her. "It's been a long night," he said. "You should go home."

"No longer for me than for you," Abby gave him a hard shrug in return. "I'm fine."

"You look tired."

A sharp laugh. "You sure know how to make a girl feel beautiful." 

"Did I do something wrong?" Luka blurted, before he could stop himself.

Her mouth pressed in a seamless line, Abby gave her head a curt shake.

He gave her a measured stare. "Is this about Carter?"

Not everything is about Carter, Abby laughed bitterly to herself. 

But this time it was. 

"The tox screen came back negative," she said.

Luka's hands stilled over the cadaver. "I never said Carter was drinking--"

"Yeah, well, you didn't have to," Abby interrupted, "The tox screen said it all."

"There was a drunk driver," he defended himself. "I was just following standard procedure."

"And it was the other guy." Her voice was deadly cold. "Carter would _never_--"

"It wasn't personal!" Luka interrupted her. He willed her to look him in the face. "It wasn't personal."

But it's always personal, Abby thought, her shoulders slumping. Carter, Luka, her--it was always personal. 

She closed her eyes against the weight of her exhaustion and rubbed at her eyelids. Feeling utterly drained, she opened her eyes, pulled the sheet over the dead body, and looked him steady in the face.

"I'm done." She snapped off her latex gloves and walked out of the room.

* * *

It was morning, but the light that threatened to spill through the windows of the exam room was not warm and butter-soft but cold and the color of chalk. It made Abby even more aware of her terrible exhaustion. Allowing herself a small sigh, she settled into her chair and leaned back against the wall.

"It's that bad, huh?"

"Carter." Abby felt as if she had been suddenly splashed by ice water. She sat upright in her chair and scooted forward until she was eye level with him. "No. I mean--yes. I mean--you're okay." She gave him a weak smile. "Welcome back."

"I hardly feel like I ever left," Carter joked, his voice thick and muddy with sleep. "This place really has a way of sucking you back in."

"It's the Bermuda Triangle of meaningful existences outside the workplace," said Abby, relieved laughter escaping her lips. Impulsively, she released her grip on the hard plastic chair underneath her and reached forward to gently touch the top of his hand. "I'm…so glad you're okay."

Carter blinked, thrown for a moment at the raw vulnerability in her voice. "A little car accident never hurt anyone," he found himself saying. The words had barely left his lips before he winced, his hand slipping out from underneath hers and automatically going to his bandaged head. "Ow."

"Yeah," Abby cringed, disentangling her hands from his and rising from her seat. "Head trauma. Don't touch that."

Still reeling from her bold overture, Carter let her pull his hand back down, her fingers kneading with his, or perhaps his with hers. They stayed that way as she sat down again.

"Do you remember what happened?" she asked him.

"Yes." Carter hesitated, his head swimming. "And no. The other car…it came out of nowhere…" His hand jerked under hers. "The other car--"

"He was drunk." Abby tightened her grip. "He was dead when the paramedics got there."

She watched the shock ripple across his face like a stone across water. Her throat hitched. She knew that with any other person the right thing to say was that it was okay, that it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't do anything to stop it from happening. But that was any other person. This was Carter. And Carter would blame himself no matter what she said, because that was the kind of person he was. He cared about others, took responsibility for their welfare, even when that meant giving the blame to himself when there was no fault to be assigned.

She owed him more than cheap words.

It was for this reason that the next words came from her mouth. 

"Phil's okay."

Abby watched as the gloom lifted, even if momentarily, from his face before being replaced by a thin sort of flush. She did her best to ignore it and continued.

"Susan's with her right now. She's discharging her." Her chest clenched. "I'll get her for you."

"No." Carter clung to her hand, pulling on her with as much strength as he could muster. "Don't."

Numb and tired, too tired, Abby simply stared at him. She didn't have the energy to do anything else.

"Abby." He was saying her name. Once, twice, a thousand times--the sound was always the same. "Please don't go."

The room around them brightened to a colorless sort of glow. Abby stared at the sound of her name from his lips. She held it and in holding it she sat back down.

"I'm sorry." It was the first thing that came to Carter's mind. It felt right so he went with it. "I'm sorry I never told you. I should have." He paused. "I never meant for you to find out like this."

"So you didn't hire the drunk driver," Abby kidded weakly, her voice dull and heavy.

"No," Carter smiled, feeling as if he was allowed to smile, as if she had given him permission. "That wasn't part of The Plan."

Abby stared at him. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware that the fingers of their hands were still wound together like twine. His fingers were long and lithe, fine-boned and glass-fragile, the hands of a musician or a surgeon, and his pulse beat steady against the pressure of her fingertips. 

Without meaning to, she swiped discreetly at her eyes with the back of her free hand.

"I'm sorry," he said again, his voice the drawn-out note of bow upon strings, soft and full and sweet, "I'm sorry I lied about…about Phil."

Not trusting herself to speak, Abby merely looked at him.

What about Phil?

The answer was on Carter's face.

So it's true, Abby thought dizzily, her heart slowing to a near-perfect still. You and Phil.

Slowly, Carter nodded.

Why did you lie to me?

"I don't know," he answered aloud. "I think I'm still figuring things out."

Abby drew a shaky breath. She thought for a moment before speaking. "At least she's not nineteen."

Carter laughed. It felt good to laugh. "No. She's thirty."

Abby listened to him talk. Phil was thirty. They grew up together. Dated in med school. He just wanted to be a doctor, it didn't matter where; she wanted something a little more lucrative. He stayed at County; she left for Northwestern. He got stabbed and addicted to painkillers; she became an Attending and pushed for a new Doctor's Exchange program with other hospitals in the Chicago area. He moved on to become Chief Resident; she got her program off the ground and was undeniably pleased to bump into him again. He returned the sentiment; she asked him out. 

He accepted. She made him happy.

Carter continued. Abby sat with her arms folded across her chest and her back against the wall, listening but having dropped his hand somewhere around "she made him happy."

"So what was this charity dinner about?" she interrupted him.

"Annual dinner to raise funds for Northwestern's emergency department," said Carter. He wasn't completely oblivious to the fact that Phil had lied to him about the true nature and purpose of the charity event. He had a feeling that Phil knew that he wouldn't have come if she told him that they were raising money for the emergency department and not for pediatrics. He had a feeling that Phil knew he would have declined her invitation, recognizing it as a ploy to get him to transfer to Northwestern, which it was and she admitted as much once they got there. 

Carter sighed. He was tired of having to think about all of this without getting to talk about it with his best friend. 

"I'm thinking of moving," he blurted, before he could stop himself, "to Northwestern."

Abby kept her face absolutely still. "You're leaving County?"

"I don't know," Carter answered honestly, an arc of light falling across his unshaven face. "But I know I can't be Chief Resident forever…and there are no Attending positions open at County."

In the brightened room, Carter noticed that the shadows that had clung to Abby in the predawn had fled from her in the morning--all except the ones haunting the undersides of her eyes. It was as if the night had left without leaving even a trace of its existence upon her face.

Abby cleared her throat. "It sounds like a great opportunity." 

Carter stared speechless at her until her head dropped as she reached up to rub the back of her neck. He tried to say something but she beat him to it.

"I'm hungry," Abby announced, changing the subject. "Are you hungry?"

He nodded.

"It's six." She stood up. "I'll run to Magoo's. What do you feel like?"

A slow smile spread across Carter's face. "Coffee and pie?"

Abby shook her head. But she was smiling as well. "It's a little early for pie. Why don't I get us some pancakes instead?"

"Pancakes sound perfect," Carter replied automatically. Where had he heard those words before? Never mind; he was looking for his wallet and couldn't find it on his person. 

"Don't worry," said Abby, as if she was reading his mind, "I think they lost your wallet in the storm."

Don't worry. Her words reverberated in his head as she walked out of the room. Things are okay between us, she seemed to say.

Carter stared after her departing figure. Her back turned to him, she never got a chance to receive his reply.

I won't remind you later that you were crying.

* * *

The witch stapled to the door of Doc Magoo's reminded Abby that today was Halloween. She ignored its smiling face when she walked back out, her hands full of breakfast and coffee and loose change. The morning was wet and foggy and cold, a light drizzle sprigging her coat and chilling the back of her neck, and she shivered as she jogged the last several paces to the ER. 

Abby made her way through the early morning crowd, noting the time and waving off requests for help with her usual "I'm off." She felt the color return to her cheeks as she veered around the last corner and didn't feel tired for the first time since she stood in the rain with his name on her lips.

She stopped abruptly outside his room and stared.

The pale pre-winter light cast a milk-white brightness to the room--enough to accentuate the bright glint of the head bent close to Carter, and the large, intensely clear eyes fixed upon him. The woman in the room said something that made Carter laugh. They were holding hands and chatting animatedly, the color in their cheeks seemingly oblivious to the gray world around them.

Wordless, Abby backed away from the door. She was vaguely aware of bumping into Susan, avoiding her stare, handing off the breakfast now gone cold in her arms, ignoring Luka's calls. She retreated. When the first blast of cold air hit her lungs, she did not look back but took off running.

* * *

CREDITS: Chapter title and opening song lyrics taken from "The Past and Pending" by my current musical obsession The Shins. According to , _rožata _is a type of Croatian pastry; all other cultural inaccuracies are completely the responsibility of the author. "I won't remind you later that you were crying" is paraphrased from a line I remember reading and loving in _The Fountainhead _by Ayn Rand.


	4. Hand Me Downs

TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (4/12)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK)

RATING: PG-13

SPOILERS: Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel _Through the Door._

ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Eeeeiii. Sorry for the absurd lateness of this chapter--Real Life was kicking my ass for awhile. But better late than never, riiight? :) Next chapter won't be as late in coming, pinky promise. Thanks and various gurgles of affection for everyone who reviewed Chapter Two: charlotte, Maven, CARBYfan, anna, Robbie, bubble girl, Carolyn, Emma Stuart, coffeeandpie, Kate, JD, Ceri, Jane McCartney, mandy, Rebecca Gower, Sandy, and Shayla. *looks at list and faints* PAR-TAY! This chapter is for Christe, who is a darling and rocks allll the socks. Oh, and a double scoop of thanks to everyone who added me to their Favorite Authors list on ff.net. *turns bright red* Head. Big. Can't. Cope. :D Feedback makes the world go 'round. Read? Review!

SUMMARY: Such sweet sorrow, second bests, Susan plays detective, lots of pensive face, some shifty references to _Magi_ (a.k.a. shameless plugging), and Carter sees dead people. Kind of.

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

Hand Me Downs

_You in the dark  
You with the pain  
You on the run_

_Living a hell  
Living your ghost  
Living your end_

* * *

Carter frowned. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong and it twisted his stomach into large unwieldy knots. But he couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was. He couldn't feel anything besides the warm hand that snuck its way into his, couldn't see anything besides the stars he imagined shining behind the rain clouds, cut out of the color of her eyes as they were and almost as bright. 

He tore his eyes from a sky he thought he saw and turned his glance to the woman he knew stayed beside him. He smiled, a frank and honest and painless sort of smile, and squeezed her hand back. By the time he heard the rip of tires through water and the frantic blow of a car horn--his car horn--it was too late. 

Light. The bright glare of headlights, the froth licking the edges of the rain that swept through the street in waves, the opaque shine of the window underneath a sodium glow. A snapshot of a face twisted in fear--not his own--and her hand wrenched from his. From far away he thought he heard her scream but he couldn't be sure; metal crunched and glass shattered above his head in a shower of stars and he felt himself knocked backwards with a terrible violence…

Then there was nothing but silence, merciful silence, broken only by the pattering of rain against his forehead.

Dizzily, he opened his eyes. He could make out the bright halo of Phil's hair even in his half-unconscious haze. She was slumped against the dashboard; her eyes open and her mouth moving but he couldn't hear what she was saying. Blood trickled from a gash that swiped across her forehead like an angry pen mark.

No. Carter shut his eyes. No no no no no.

He opened them again, but she was still staring at him.

Lucy, he thought dully.

Shaking, he brought his hand up to his own face. He wiped the water from his brow. When he drew his hand back, there was blood on his cuff.

Pain and panic swept over him like the shadow of an enormous wave. Wildly, his eyes darted around but he found nothing to hold on to. Night pressed in all around him like a vice. The wave crested--it rolled over him in a paint of darkness--the world flipped upside down--he tumbled free--

Gasping awake, Carter opened his eyes to blackness.

* * *

"Luka. Luka? …Earth to Luka."

Startled, Luka shook his head and looked up. Susan stood at the window to the drug lockup, her elbows propped up against the ledge and her hands cupped over her mouth, and was staring at him curiously. 

"Rough night?" she said, her tone kind.

Luka lifted his head from where it was resting against the lip of a shelf. There was a faint indentation where the shelf used to be and Susan suppressed a grin. "Just tired," he lied.

"It's more convincing if you make eye contact," said Susan, blandly.

His face blank, he looked up at her. "What is?"

"Lying."

Luka had the good grace to look embarrassed. His mouth twisted into an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry."

But Susan shook her head. "It's okay."

"I need to find…Compazine…" explained Luka under his breath, aware that she was still staring at him peculiarly. He tapped his nervous fingers against the steel shelf. 

Susan disappeared from the window. He heard her round the corner and step into the drug lockup with him. Expertly, she scanned the shelves before plucking a bottle from the stacks. 

She held it out to him. "You want fries with that?" 

"Thanks." Luka gave her another awkward smile as they stepped out together.

"No problem," said Susan, her tone conversational. "Are you coming down with something?"

Tired, he rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand as they walked. "I'm fine."

Susan almost burst out laughing; it was uncanny, really, how much he reminded her of Abby in that moment. Dark eyes, tired movements, flat replies. "You sure?" she said, absently, her mind still rattled by this mini-epiphany. "It's going around."

"Abby is sick," said Luka, just as absently. 

Susan was silent for a moment before answering. "Is she still angry with you?"

"I don't know." Rueful, Luka shook his head. He gave her a hesitant glance out of the corner of his eye. The fluorescent light glinted off of Susan's fair head in gold spikes as they walked down the corridor. "I was hoping you could tell me."

"I…" Susan trailed off as he looked at her hopefully. Without knowing why, she felt a sudden stab of pity, and of loneliness. 

Stop it, she told herself.

"I couldn't really say," finished Susan lamely. "Abby doesn't really talk about it."

Inwardly, she sighed. Luka was trying very hard to look like he didn't care much about her answer and he was failing miserably. After a moment, she continued, her words gentle: "You know, I'm sure if you talked to her things would be fine."

Talk to her, his mind echoed. Doggedly, his feet followed Susan. That was easier said than done.

Uncertain, Luka felt his way around his words. "What do you think--"

"Luka," Susan broke in patiently, "This is the ladies' room."

She watched, amused, as he flushed scarlet and mumbled an apology before beating an escape down the hall. For someone whose intelligent and sensitive nature tended to show in everything he did, he could be awfully dense about some things. Like women. Specifically, one woman.

How the hell he and Abby ever made a relationship work was beyond her, Susan decided, and she shook her head as she watched him disappear around the corner.

* * *

Carter drew a long, shuddering gasp.

The bedroom was dark and still, like the bottom of an ocean floor, the current the quiet breathing of the woman sound asleep next to him. Turning his face slightly, he could make out her face in the darkness. She looked peaceful, her eyes shut and her lips slightly parted, the ends of her hair tickling the side of his neck.

He turned away.

Carefully, he began to slip from Phil's embrace. It was difficult. The cast on his broken leg was heavy and even after a week he was unaccustomed to moving around with the extra weight. It was not unlike dragging an anchor with him. A very heavy, very inconvenient, very Magic Marker-ed anchor. 

With a start, he remembered the last time he had to wear a cast. He tried hard not to.

Inch by inch, he eased out from the bed. The mattress sagged beneath him, the cast dragging itself along and forming an indentation wherever it rested. It scraped against the sheets like the metal teeth of a zipper grinding together. With a grunt, he pulled himself free, and the cast fell to the rug with an ungraceful thud. 

Carter grimaced, but Phil merely rolled over in her sleep--an easy and dreamless sleep. He felt a sudden stab of envy.

Slipping soundlessly from the bedroom, he limped into the hallway. The hallway of her apartment was full of narrow passages and sharp corners. It was difficult to navigate using crutches without knocking into anything so he left them by the bedside. Instead, he took his time and hobbled slowly but painfully in the direction of her kitchen, his palms sliding against her wall to support his weight. 

He made it without any major disaster (although he narrowly avoided decapitating a china figurine). His hands groped the wall for a switch, running over the grooves in the wallpaper like Braille, and soon a low light filled the room. It pricked the backs of his eyes. He blinked rapidly until the piercing sensation disappeared. 

Moving with great slowness, he poured himself a glass of water and crumpled into a chair, his cast propped up on a seat.

Phil was a product of old money and a Protestant upbringing; as a result, she was obsessively fond of stained glass. Her apartment was cluttered with various lamps all cut in the classic Tiffany's design. They reminded him vaguely of cold Christmas Eves and warm candle-lit halls, the pew hard underneath his fragile child bones and a book heavy in his lap.

The kitchen had not escaped unscathed. An inverted dome hung from a brass fixture on the ceiling and cradled the light in a bowl of primary colors. Light melted through the panes of cut glass like warm butter: the red and yellow glass shone, a sunset splashed against his hands, throwing irregular patterns on his skin. It was a very beautiful sunset--the kind that only came in the first few days of autumn to touch gold upon the leaves that would soon turn--and it winked at him as the bulb flickered. 

Restless, Carter drew his hands away from the light and rubbed at his eyes. He was so tired. He had not slept well in a very long time, less so since the accident, and it showed: bruise-blue shadows charcoaled the undersides of his eyes and his face wore a pale, waxy complexion. But he dared not close his eyes.

For when he closed his eyes, he dreamt death.

Death stabbed at his back and slid like a blade between his bones; it pricked him like a hot needle and stamped its mark upon the faces of the very young. Death came to him in bright flashes of memory; death came to him in dreams. Yet, he remained helpless to its power. A lifetime of nightmares had brought him not wisdom but the pain of ignorance and the language of dreams was lost to him. He could not recognize the tongue and so could not decipher whatever meaning he was meant to be taught. 

Instead, Carter learned, with great weakness, what it was like to be so young and to have death mark him, as surely as sin must have scarred the faces of those turned away at the gates of Heaven.

Growing up, he tried to hide it. He tried to let the past bury itself, tried to keep separate the texture of dreams from reality. He was damn good at it, too; he graduated from med school and he became a doctor. He tried the erase the long shadows that death cast upon the living, and he did it everyday. He was young, he was ambitious, he was earnest, and he was heartbreakingly determined. 

But he wasn't resilient.

So death stayed with him like his shadow. Not because he was a martyr or a savior of a victim--he was none of these things, not one to be honored or pitied, no. He was a witness. Only that, and nothing more, but it was enough. 

It was enough. He closed his eyes and saw a face printed upon the insides of his eyelids, a face he had seen again and again since the accident, the face of the driver who hit him: young, and scared, and dying. A face that was not completely unlike Bobby's, whose own face had already begun to show a hint of the man he would never become; or Lucy's, whose hair dyed the color of sunshine and eyes cut out of the bluest summer sky could not save her from a colorless existence.

Carter had watched them die. First Bobby, then Lucy, and now…

His shoulders sagged with the burden of memory. Only once had it become too much for him to bear--it was then that he came to death's threshold, and he came begging. But hands had wrenched him back, hands that were not his own, hands that were strong and capable and stubborn. Hands that belonged first to Peter Benton: his mentor, his teacher, his friend.

And then they belonged to Abby.

* * *

It was definitely flu season. Even in the predawn, there were people waiting in chairs for relief and Susan brandished it in the form of a flu shot. 

Service with a smile, she thought blandly to herself, as she pasted one on her face in response to the teen that glared at her now. She didn't bother asking what the teen was doing out at two in the morning on a school night; it wasn't any of her business and she wasn't sure it was a good idea to provoke the patient. Even if Susan was the one holding the needle.

Done. The girl rolled down her sleeve and hopped off the exam table, her bright copper hair swinging behind her. She nodded a thanks to Susan. 

Gratitude. Color me touched, Susan thought wryly.

Cleanup was a quick affair and Susan soon returned to the front desk to erase another name from the board. Giving the vastly empty waiting area a quick survey, she assigned the rest of the flu patients to Gallant and resigned herself to a fate of finishing off a stack of charts: hers, and Carter's. 

She grabbed a stack and made her way to the lounge. It was dark, empty, and quiet, except for the buzzing of the fluorescent light overhead, and she felt oddly uneasy in the cavernous silence. She made more noise than necessary dropping the stack of files onto the table and starting a new pot of coffee. Plucking the old filter from its plastic encasing, she crumpled it carefully into a neat ball and lobbed it towards the nearest trash can.

She missed.

Groaning, Susan watched sourly as the filter landed with a faint plop onto the carpet before unfolding like a volcano and sending old coffee grounds flying into the air. She sighed and grabbed a handful of paper towels. 

She picked listlessly at the filter and dumped it into the trashcan. A folded piece of fluorescent pink paper was stuck to the side of the container. Susan glanced at it briefly while scrubbing the coffee grains out of the carpet: it appeared to be an advertisement for a discounted gym membership. Interested, she peeled the paper from the wastebasket and, out of curiosity, unfolded it.

There was writing on the back of the paper. Susan recognized it instantly as Carter's. God knows she had done enough of his charts while he was recovering in the last week to recognize his hand. Holding the bright rectangle gingerly between her fingers, she glanced at the first few lines. Startled, what was born out of mere curiosity fleshed into stunned disbelief as she skimmed through the entire letter, shock squashing whatever feelings of guilt she might have cultivated in any other case.

She did not have to read past the beginning to realize what kind of letter it was. It was a draft, apparently addressed to the hospital, and full of angry cross-outs and scribbles. She forced herself to double-check the hastily written scrawl to make sure that she was not mistaken--she was not--then crumpled the paper in her hands. She dropped it back in the wastebasket, the first sentence ringing in her head…

_I am writing to inform you of my resignation…_

* * *

The hands on the clock read two thirty when Phil wandered into the kitchen to find Carter at the table, his cast propped up on a chair and his fingers tapping restlessly against an empty glass.

She cleared her throat. "Hey."

Carter looked up. She was leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest and her hands lost in her sleeves. Her hair fell in tousled waves around her face, and her eyes still had that half-glassy look of sleep. She smiled at him.

He looked up at her and, reflexively, smiled back. "Hey," he returned.

She walked over to where he was sitting. Her hair brushed against his cheek as she bent down to press her lips against the side of his face. "What are you doing?" she murmured, looping one arm around him. "It's late."

"Thirsty," said Carter, closing his eyes as her arm rested against his collarbone.

Her breath was warm against his neck. "Do you want me to get you some water?"

"I already had some." For a reason he could not understand, he felt himself shut down to her, as a flower closes up at night. When he spoke, his own voice was strange and remote to his ears. "Go back to sleep," he said, tersely.

Carter felt her stiffen, ever so slightly, against him. 

Phil withdrew, her hands still on his shoulders. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said automatically. Her hand slipped off as she circled around to take a seat beside him.

"You're lying," said Phil, succinctly. 

Carter stared at her, half in offense and half in admiration. Phil was, if anything, distressingly honest. It reminded him exactly why he liked her so much--and exactly why they broke up in med school. She said the things he didn't want to hear, true or not.

Phil reached out and took his hand. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shrugged, his hand laying limp in hers. "There's nothing to talk about."

Bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks. "There's nothing to talk about or you don't want to talk about it?"

What was there to say? Carter snorted. I see dead people?

Aloud, he wasn't nearly as glib. "I don't want to talk about it--with you."

Phil flinched, but Carter held his ground. This was something she couldn't possibly understand, he was sure of it, her happy childhood untouched by the caress of death. She with the spun-gold hair and eyes the color of wet glass and a smile so bright that his eyes hurt from it--she would never understand, she would only find herself on the other side of a divide that split them apart, and in his kindness he wasn't sure he wanted to subject her to that knowledge.

But Phil only looked at if as if he was cruel, hurt mirrored in her large gray eyes. "John."

Carter mimicked her tone. "Phil."

She stared at him, hard. "Are you trying to make me angry?"

"I don't know." When Carter looked at her, he spoke with measured tones. "Is it working?"

Years of knowing Phil meant he knew how to push her buttons, and he knew he was pushing them right now, quite deliberately. 

"You know what?" she said evenly, "You can be a real asshole sometimes." 

When he didn't respond, she continued. "This isn't you--"

"Really?" he broke in.

She ignored him. "I know there's something wrong."

Carter lifted an eyebrow and, ever so slightly, shook his head.

"Look," she tried, "You can keep it to yourself and be miserable, or you can talk to me and--"

"Feel better?" Carter sounded bored. "Somehow, I doubt it."

"Stop it," snapped Phil, looking fed up, "Don't make things worse than they already are."

"I didn't think you cared," interrupted Carter, coolly.

Fuck. What had made him say that? Furious at himself, he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Phil stared at him. "You know I care," she said, her voice deadly quiet, "It's not my fault if you don't seem to care back."

Carter blinked. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was surprised to find himself protesting. I do care, he thought. More than you know and more than I think I do.

But he remained mute.

"How can you think that?" she continued, looking pale and unhappy even under the lamplight, which graced her features like the glow from the edge of a flame. "How can you even think for a moment that I don't care?"

"We've only been dating for a couple of months," said Carter, his voice level.

Phil turned to him, her gaze fierce and sad. "I've known you my entire life."

He fell silent.

She fixed her gaze on him. Carefully, "You're not going to tell me what's wrong, are you?"

"No," Carter stared vacantly--not quite at her, but more like through her, "You make me happy."

They stared at each other with identical expressions of shock upon their faces.

Carter was shocked because although he had never really thought about it, he knew what he said to be true; Phil was shocked because very seldom did Carter express any kind of obvious attachment to her. She found it puzzling because this was not the Carter she knew in med school, who was open and direct and earnest with his effortless smiles and easy caresses. This Carter was stubborn, sometimes curt, and when he looked at her his smile very often did not reach his eyes.

But then again, she did not know about the long stretch of time between then and now, about his long line of failed relationships, about Abby. How could she know what time did to him when, to be fair, he hardly knew himself?

Carter watched as her eyes searched his, grey meeting brown like a rain-colored sky veined with bare branches. He recovered first. "Is that what you want to hear?" 

The chair scraped against the floor as Phil stood up, her voice muffled by the darkness that now hid her face like a veil.

"Only if you mean it." 

But that was the problem, Carter thought as he listened to her retreat down the hallway. I do mean it. I do.

* * *

Wide awake, Phil stood outside the door to her bedroom and leaned quietly against the wall. Her shoulders slumped and she drew deep, even breaths--the kind of breaths people drew in order to keep themselves from crying, only Phyllis Weston did not cry.

When she heard him rise from his seat in the kitchen, she held her breath. She wasn't sure if she was waiting for him, or waiting for him to leave. It wasn't long before she got her answer. 

She listened as he limped away from the direction of her bedroom and towards the front door. She heard him grab his wallet and his set of keys to her apartment from off the coffee table in the foyer and she imagined him shrugging into his coat. She shut his eyes when she heard the door close behind him and the locks slide into place.

When she was sure he was gone, she let herself sink to the ground and she buried her face in her hands.

* * *

The phone was ringing. An awful, high-pitched, jangling sound that sliced right through her delirious cloud of unconsciousness to stab mercilessly at her eyes. Groggily, Abby rolled over in her sleep and, suppressing a cough, swiped wildly at the receiver. She managed to grab it on her third try. Her lips barely moved as she pressed the phone against her ear and mumbled into the mouthpiece, her voice thick with sleep and sickness. "Hello?"

Though the night was cold and Carter stood huddled in nothing but an overcoat over his thin pajamas, he couldn't help but smile at the sound of her voice. "It's me."

Abby's eyes shot open. Disbelievingly, she sat up in bed. _Carter?_

"Abby?" Uncertainly, he paused. "It's me. Carter."

"I know." Impatiently, she pushed the hair from her face, the phone clutched to her ear. "What time is it?"

Outside her apartment, Carter glanced at his watch then up at her window. The sky sparkled overhead, sprigged with stars like tiny chips of ice, and he expelled his breath in little puffs of smoke. The night was crisp and clear--it had not yet begun to snow, but it was cold enough, and frost covered her window like lacework.

He shivered and tried to keep his teeth from chattering as he spoke. "It's half past three. Did I wake you?"

He couldn't see her, but he could swear he heard her roll her eyes. Crabbily, she replied. "What do you think, Einstein?"

Amused, Carter paced to keep warm. He heard her flop back down onto her bed and cough several times. "It's just John now, thanks."

"Whatever," said Abby, who felt sleep leaving with each passing moment and was becoming all the crankier for it.

"Cheer up. It could be worse."

She glared into the darkness. "How?"

"You could be working," said Carter, reasonably.

"I called in sick." Sniffling, she sat up again. "Carter, where _are_ you?"

"Outside your apartment." He paused and she heard a car drive by. "It's really cold."

Silence. "Are you asking if you can come in?"

Carter glanced upwards again, but it was still dark in her apartment. Tentatively, he shaped his mouth around the words. "Can I?"

Clumsily, he crossed his fingers. Please, please let her say yes.

On the other end of the line, Abby sighed, a headache beginning to lance at her eyes. 

As if I could say no.

"Abby?" he ventured.

"I'll buzz you in," she said at last.

* * *

Abby was waiting for him by the time he reached the top of the stairs. Her door was partially open, casting a bright wedge of light into the darkness of the hallway and giving him just enough of a guide to make his way down the corridor.

He was cold and tired from by the time his knuckles rapped against her door. Suddenly shy, he waited behind the threshold. Cold night air caught in the folds of his coat and his cast was a bright white glare against the dark spill of shadows. "Avon calling."

The door swung open and Abby appeared. "Not at this hour."

Raising his hand to his face, Carter took a moment to accustom his eyes to the brightness. When he was finished blinking, he saw that she was warm and rumpled. Her cheeks were flushed a wild rose, but whether it was from sleep or a fever or something else, he couldn't tell.

She stepped back to let him through. His bones still felt painfully frozen from standing outside in the November night. He dragged himself with bone-aching slowness across her threshold. 

Eyeing him as he hobbled through the door, Abby finally spoke up. "You do realize that it's almost four a.m.," she said, unsympathetically. 

Carter tried hard to look nonchalant but his cast was making things difficult. "Yeah."

"And I'm sick," she said, sniffling particularly loudly to make her point.

"Yeah," he grimaced. "I'm really sorry about that."

She reached behind him to lock the door. He took the opportunity to unbutton his coat and shed what felt like an extra layer of frost. 

"You're wearing your pajamas," said Abby, obviously surprised.

"So are you," he correctly pointed out.

Exasperated, Abby moved in front of him. Despite the fact that he was a good foot taller, she scrutinized him until he shirked under her gaze. "Where are your crutches?" she demanded.

Irritated at last, Carter scowled at her. "What are you, my mother?" 

Abby glared back. "Ouch."

He looked away first. He was cold, he was tired, and his leg hurt like hell. "Can I sit down?"

Looking at his pitiful form, Abby sighed, martyr-like, and helped him out of his coat. She felt her stomach doing funny twisty things as she helped him over to her sofa, his arm slung gingerly around her shoulder and her body tucked neatly by his.

Stop that, she told herself fiercely. What are you, fifteen?

Once she helped him get settled on the sofa, cast propped up on the coffee table and head leaned against a throw pillow, she disappeared into the kitchen and reemerged with two hot cups of tea. She handed him his and held her own carefully as she settled herself opposite him on the sofa. Her nose was red and her eyes were puffy with sleep.

Clutching a box of tissues, she spoke thickly. "Okay, who died?"

"Died?" Carter blinked. "Nobody died."

"Then what are you doing here so late?" said Abby, bluntly.

For a moment, he looked properly ashamed. "I'm sorry. I know you're sick--"

"It's okay," she interrupted, waving him off. Without trying to appear too obvious, she studied his face. He looked as if he had not slept, or shaved, in at least a couple of days. Dark shadows lined the undersides of his eyes and the curve of his jaw, like soot smudged against his pale skin, and his eyes wore a lost, haunted look.

"Do you want me to go?" said Carter, interrupting her thoughts.

Abby looked stubborn. "No." She took a delicate sip from her mug, savoring the feeling of tea slipping down her burning throat. "But you can tell me why you're here."

With great reluctance, Carter pried the words from his lips. "Phil and I had a fight."

"Oh." Dispassionately, she looked at him from over the brim of her mug. "At three in the morning? You guys sound like my ex-neighbors," she cracked.

Carter looked injurious. "She started it."

"Right," agreed Abby, pulling a tissue from its box and blowing her nose loudly, "Because that one really makes you sound like a mature and responsible adult."

"It does too," he said. Was he pouting?

"It's great where I am," she rolled her eyes, her voice heavy with sarcasm, "What's it like in the third grade?"

Carter looked cranky. "You're abusing sarcasm."

"Wouldn't wanna get rusty," said Abby, almost cheerfully, as she took another sip from her mug.

Amused, Carter watched her for a moment, his hands wrapped protectively around his drink. "You're awfully glib for someone who is sick with the flu and up at four in the morning."

"Would you rather I was the demon mistress from hell?" Abby raised an eyebrow. "Because I'm sick and it's late and that can definitely be arranged."

Carter couldn't help it; he smiled.

"Enough about me." Stifling a yawn, Abby tried very hard to ignore the headache lashing at her temples. "What's wrong, Carter?"

He continued smiling at her, his eyes softening to match the smoky darkness. "Nothing."

"Something better be wrong," she pointed out, "Or else I'm going back to bed."

Absently, Carter leaned forward, gazing into the contents of his half-emptied mug as if it held all the secrets to the universe. He found it difficult to speak. 

Coughing, Abby drummed her fingers against the side of her mug. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He sighed. "I don't--"

"Because it might help," she interrupted, though without much rancor. She was beginning to feel light-headed. "It's why you're here, isn't it?"

Carter squeezed his eyes shut. It was like she could see all the way straight to the back of his head in a way no one else could. It was a little unnerving and a little comforting at the same time.

"Carter?" she prodded. 

Painfully, he shifted his weight, his cast scraping against her coffee table. Abby helped him move it onto the couch. She found herself trapped between his leg and the backside of the sofa. She didn't really mind.

"I remember his face," said Carter, finally.

Abby looked blank. "Whose face?"

"The driver…the guy who hit me."

She blinked. His face was beginning to shake and swarm in front of her, like a blur of dark colors. 

"I remember his face," repeated Carter, more faintly, "Right before he hit me. He was young. Really young. Gallant's age, maybe."

"Carter," Abby said, quietly.

But he continued as if he didn't hear her. "Young," he continued, in the same remote tone, "But not that young. Old enough to be married. Old enough to be--to be a father."

Startled, she nearly dropped her mug. 

"She's pregnant," he chuckled to himself. "The guy's wife is pregnant."

Abby was quiet for a moment as she let the gravity of his words sink in. They needled at her eyes like a bright light, and she turned away, seeking relief.

Mirthlessly, Carter grinned at her, the corners of his mouth curling upwards like paper burning. "His wife called me today. She wanted to meet, wanted to apologize, wanted to see the face that her son or daughter would never see, I bet."

Uneasily, Abby glanced over at his hands, which were clutching the mug so tightly that they were turning white. 

"I told her I was busy."

Without a word, Abby reached over and pried the mug gently from his hands, placing it with a soft clink onto the table. She felt shaky, and dizzy, and terribly weak, but nevertheless scooted forward until she could see herself reflected in his eyes.

"Carter," she tried, keeping her voice steady, "Look at me. Look. He hit you. _He _hit you," she repeated for emphasis. "He was drinking, and he was stupid enough to drive in the middle of a storm while drunk. It's not your fault."

"Really." Carter laughed--an awful, hollow sort of laugh--and she realized that she had never heard him laugh that way before. _"Is that what I'm supposed to tell his wife?"_

Mouth dry, Abby licked her lips. Faintly, she kept her eyes fixed on him, glassy as they were with fever and tiredness. "You don't owe her anything."

He laughed again, the same mirthless laugh, and leaned forward until she could feel his breath on her face. 

"He's dead. I'm alive. You do the math. It seems pretty simple to me."

Abby felt her breath hitch. They were sitting much closer to each other than she had previously realized. She could see how very large and dark his pupils were, making his eyes look not brown but black, and how the laughter that came from his lips did not touch his eyes. She could see how pale he was underneath all the shadows that graced his face, which was the color of chalk and bone and cloud, and she could see something else, too. There was something dark and restless about the way he looked at her, the way he moved his hands--like veins that ran beneath paper-white skin, their color sharp against her eyes but their shape not altogether apparent.

Startled, she realized that she didn't recognize this person. Carter, who wore every emotion on his face, whose face she knew almost better than her own, was a complete stranger to her.

Suddenly, he reached out and caught at a stray wisp of hair falling in front of her eyes.

"Do you know what it's like to watch someone die?" he said, softly.

Carter realized that he was trembling all over. So was Abby. But where he shook with guilt and anger and fear, she shook with fever, her dark eyes unusually bright and her cheeks burned with color. There was a shallowness to her breathing that he knew had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the flu, or did it?

"I thought so," said Carter, his voice still soft and full of--malice?--Abby thought dizzily. 

No, bitterness.

Leaning forward, he let the wisp fall from his fingertips. But he left his hand by the side of her face. He left it long enough for him to mean it and long enough for her to notice.

He left it long enough for her to lean into his touch if she wanted to.

A violent ache hammered behind her eyes. Abby felt as if heat was falling over her like a suffocating blanket. "It's not your fault," she repeated, weary, and she felt herself sway ever so slightly out of drowsiness.

She brushed against his hand.

"Abby…" said Carter, so close by.

"Yes?" she murmured. She could almost feel the whorls and swirls of his fingerprints printing themselves upon her skin, as dark and defined as ink or blood.

"You're really sick," he said, alarmed.

With difficulty, she dragged her eyes open, though she could not remember when she had closed them. He was looking at her, concern and worry etched in every line of his face; he was Carter as she knew him once more, and she felt an indefinable tension leave her body.

"You're really sick," he repeated, for her benefit.

"I don't have a witty remark for that one," said Abby, who was beginning to feel like her head was going to explode. 

Anxious, Carter pressed his hand against her forehead, all thoughts of guilt and private grief momentarily on hold. "You made a joke in the middle of your feverish state," he cracked. "That's very positive."

"Is it?" Abby shook her head, hard. "I just need to get some sleep."

He dropped his hand. Instantly, she missed its presence. "I should go."

"No," Abby blinked rapidly, the fever making her do something she normally wouldn't do, "You can stay."

Surprised, Carter opened his mouth to object, but found that he did not want to.

* * *

Abby insisted on getting Carter some bedding in spite of her fluish state. In reality, it was an excuse for her to catch her breath. She felt decidedly sick--a dull, consumptive ache inside her chest and shooting arrows of pain in her bones--but she knew it wasn't just the flu that was making her react this way.

This was hell, she grimaced as she sifted through the contents of her linen closet for something appropriately warm and non-flowery. Never in her life had she cared about someone more than they cared about her; not since Maggie was she willing to put herself in a position to be hurt so violently by another person. She had only vague memories of her father, who skipped out before she ever even knew what it _was_ to love, and found whatever love she gave to Eric reciprocated in full.

She never really loved anyone until Richard, and even then it was hard to say that she loved him. She supposed she did, but only because she ended up hating him. Love and hate were but two sides of the same coin, weren't they? 

She made sure she never loved Luka. Not consciously, not at first. It became a sort of…habit, after awhile. He made it so easy for her; he made it so easy for her to make sure that what had happened with Maggie would never repeat itself.

Except, it did. Rather, it was.

Abby knew that Carter cared about her, the same way Carter cared about people in general. It was in his nature to do so. Where she created a world for herself where people did not love her and she had no one to love, he reacted to one already made for him by his brother's death. Carter gave himself to people in a way she could never understand and in some ways didn't want to.

He gave himself to her, of course, and she knew that now; knew it the night he looked at her in the way only _he_ could look at her, and she let herself look at him in the same way back. But things had changed. As the days shortened and the leaves began to brown, time did much to change the texture of their relationship. Very rarely now did she catch him looking at her. More often did she catch him staring at Phil with the oddest expression on his face: amazement mixed with happiness mixed with…resentment.

Hugging a comforter to herself, she closed her eyes and leaned forward until her head rested against the edge of a shelf. She didn't know if she loved him. She only knew that what she was beginning to feel for him was something entirely terrifying and wonderful and painful but most of all unfamiliar. 

But pain was not. Abby was not accustomed to caring for someone so violently, but she was accustomed to the intimate nuances of pain. She knew it because she lived it everyday. Life taught her to want for nothing and expect less, lock the best parts of herself away, laugh less and pray never. She learned well. 

So she would deal with this pain just as she dealt with any other pain. She would deal with it until it consumed her, until nothing else remained except that pain, and it was no longer a part of her so much as it _was _her. It was the way she learned and it was the way she survived. It was how things were and how things were always going to be.

* * *

When Abby returned, arms full of bedding, Carter had apparently fallen asleep. His leg was propped up on the end of her sofa and his head was jammed against one of her throw pillows. He must have been very tired; she could almost make out the map of veins that swam beneath his bruise-blue eyelids. 

Still. Abby had to resist the urge to kick his injured leg.

Swallowing, she unfolded the blanket and tucked it around his slumbering form. It was only when her shadow crossed his face did his eyes flutter open to peer up at her.

"I'm awake," said Carter, his voice hazy with sleep.

"Liar," said Abby, automatically.

"Never that," he mumbled, his eyes falling back shut.

"All men are liars," Abby assured him, reaching behind his head to tuck another pillow under it.

"Abby?" murmured Carter. He was speaking so softly that she had to crane her neck to hear him.

She sighed. "What?"

His eyes remained closed but a sleep-heavy hand reached out from under the blanket to bracelet her wrist. Wide-eyed, Abby stared at his face, shut eyes and unshaven jaw and skin the color of moonlight on water, and felt the light pressure of his fingertips on her skin.

He opened his eyes, indistinguishable from the darkness that flowed around them like spilt black ink. There was no way for Abby to know that he once upon a time, in a motel room in Minnesota, he looked upon her in the same way.

Only, he said now what he had no need to say back then, so closely knit they were. "I miss you."

Abby felt her chest clench. She leaned in close, her face inches from his, and spoke deliberately. "I'm right here."

She sat back on her heels and waited until, asleep, his hand slipped from hers. When she rose to turn off the light, she stood in the predawn and waited for darkness to fall over her like water, but night never came. A faint light was dawning in the east.

* * *

CREDITS: Every ER fan worth her salt knows from whence the song lyrics came; Bush and "Letting the Cables Sleep" for those of you not in the know. Carter borrows from _The Sixth Sense_, Buffy, and _Sliding Doors _with his "I see dead people", "you're abusing sarcasm", and "you made a joke in your feverish state" comments, respectively. (What, you think he's this funny on his own? ;D)


	5. Seventeen Against the Dealer

TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (5/12)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK)

RATING: PG-13

SPOILERS: Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel _Through the Door._

ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Oh, man. I'm so delinquent. I'm going to stop apologizing for the long wait between chapters. Chapter Four is a transitional chapter in which lots of people talk and not much happens, so bear with me. Thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter Three: charlotte, Ashelle, jakeschick, noa4jc, Jane McCartney, flutiedutiedute, mandy, Carolyn, Lana, starbuckmeggie, Emma Stuart, KenzieGal, Ceri, CARBYfan, kristie, kate, eliza, sandy, Nat, lisa, charli, and Rebecca. Rock on. This chapter is dedicated to JD, charli, and jakeschick for their help with sorting out the birthday business over at the LJ. 

SUMMARY: In which Abby receives a succession of visitors, Susan comes bearing gifts, asshole!Carter rears his ugly head, and Luka makes an unusual proposition.

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

Seventeen Against the Dealer

_And all I do is miss you and the way we used to be._

* * *

Light came first, and then a pain, searing the insides of his lids like fire, until Carter was forced to open his eyes. The world swarmed in a kaleidoscope of colors in front of him. He blinked several times and, eventually, everything fell into focus: a table, a window, a sofa. None of it his. 

He closed his eyes. Immediately, relief fell over him like the cool shade of leaves in summertime. His head was still muddy with sleep but for once it had been a sleep restful and reassuring; a sleep whose texture was woven with threads dyed not in nightmare but in pleasant memory. So pleasant, in fact, that the absence of this recollection left him feeling cold, as if he had been doused with ice water, and feebly he reached back into his mind for his dreaming.

He had been dreaming about the first time he kissed Phil. One afternoon in the summer of his seventeenth birthday, he found her lounged atop an old tire swing on the grounds behind her house, her face turned to the sun like a flower and her arms looped around lines of rope that spiraled around her like ribbons around a May Queen. He was backlit against the summer twilight, his tall and lanky frame splashing a taller and lankier shadow upon her face as he approached. Eventually, he drew near enough for her to note the determined line of his mouth, the anxious fidgeting of his hands, the grave seriousness of the expression on his face, and, worried, she slowed the tire swing to a stop.

But before she had a chance to say anything, before she could even let out a word, he leaned over and kissed her.

He kissed her in a tangle of hands and mouths and tongues; he kissed her in the sudden and messy and urgent way only a seventeen year old boy could kiss. She was surprised--so _very _surprised--that she tumbled right off the tire swing with an undignified shriek, landing in a spray of arms and legs upon the well-kept lawn. He felt his face explore about ten shades of red before he was able to compose himself. Apologies tumbling out of his mouth, he knelt down and extended a hand. In response, she grabbed his hand, yanked him down atop her, and, hooking one perfectly tanned and freckled arm around his neck, pulled him to her.

It was summer and it was sunset and it was perfect.

There was something about being seventeen and in love. He smiled at the memory. But the smile quickly vanished as he stared up at Abby's ceiling, other memories flashing before his eyes like the pale undersides of petals fluttering to the ground. Bobby, so thin and pale with disease that his bright dark eyes were the only color in his face. The shouting of his parents behind closed doors. Phil looking up at him with eyes the color of mirrors. The relentless and commanding voice of Peter Benton softened by ready encouragement from Mark. Lucy on the rooftop. Unbearable pain bursting in his back and the first guilty slip of needle under skin. Abby, her breath steeped in alcohol and her hand on his cheek. A face, white with fear, smudged against a black blanket of rain and night, threaded with headlights.

Carter closed his eyes again. When he was seventeen, he didn't have to know what he wanted and he was still a whole person. In fact, the beauty and _wholeness _of being seventeen was all about not knowing what the hell he wanted out of life but having all the time in the world to figure it out. But he couldn't say the same at thirty two. Somewhere along the way he had lost track of what he wanted and in doing so he had lost track of himself. 

* * *

It was cold and unusually clear, as if a glass pane had pressed itself flat against the sky, when Susan left the ER. Her skin exploded in goosebumps as soon as the chill hit her face and she automatically let out a curse. Her body tired but her mind wide awake, she picked her way across the ice-encrusted ambulance bay, stopped briefly at Doc Magoo's, and ascended the metal-plated steps to the El.

Morning had begun to flood the streets by the time Susan glanced up at the windows to Abby's apartment. Drops of water beaded the windows where frost had visited the night before, but other than that she couldn't make anything out beyond the bright glare of light against glass. Annoyed, she balanced the cardboard box in her hands heavily against the side of a hip and, with a newly freed hand, reached for her cell phone. She was fumbling with the keypad when the door opened.

A man with a briefcase and a cup of coffee held the door for her. She thanked him under her breath and ducked inside. Cell phone dangling from an index finger and arms wrapped around a large box of coffee, hot breakfast, bagels, cream cheese, and assorted flu-fighting necessities, she trudged up the stairwell, made a sharp right, and, rather ungracefully, banged the door to Abby's apartment with the side of her foot.

Nothing.

Inwardly, Susan growled. The box slipping from her grip, she drew her foot back again--

--and nearly lost her balance as the cell phone fell with an alarming crack to the floor. Gah, Susan despaired to herself, prepared to launch into a parade of swear words--when the door opened, and every four-letter word died on her lips when she saw who had opened it.

"Susan?" Carter, dressed in his pajamas with his hair sticking up in a thorny crown of cowlicks, squinted at her with bedroom eyes. "What are you doing here?"

* * *

Luka returned to an apartment that was almost church-like in its hallowed, undisturbed silence, the quiet drawing apart like a heavy curtain to let him in and then dropping shut behind his weary figure. Yawning, he dropped his bag on the floor and deposited a backlog of mail on the couch, one hand loosening the tie at his throat. He walked over to the fish tank and peered into the glass-blue brightness, bits of flake crumbling absently between his fingers. 

Afterwards, he threw himself onto his couch. It had been a long shift, made longer by the fact that Weaver had exiled Susan to triage and there was no one to distract him from the fact that Abby weighed heavily on his mind. In the week since the accident Abby had been distant and cold, like a blast of arctic air, and he knew enough by now to know that she was upset with him. In his frustration, he had tried to talk to Susan, but Susan merely remained evasive, advising that he talk to Abby.

Talk to her. Right. Easier said than done.

Methodically, he began to sift through his mail--a couple of bills, some advertisements, a free magazine--but his attention drifted. He blinked hard to dispel Abby from his memories, embossed into his mind she was, her face streaked with rainwater and shock when they rolled Carter into the ER, then tense and defensive as she snapped off a latex glove and walked out of the trauma room.

_I'm done._

Were they? They didn't feel _done_, as much as Luka tried to will it, as much as he tried to tell himself over and over that he missed his chance to be right with her. Nothing faded from his memory. Not the way she held him, not the way she felt so small in his arms, not the way the dark used to set her skin alight when they made love. Nothing. In the end there was only a balmy night in Chicago, alcohol and regret coursing through his veins as he watched her walk away, his own words reverberating between his ears. 

_I'm done. I'm done, okay? Carter can have you._

Setting his jaw, he closed his mind to the memory and resumed going through his mail, disposing of the junk, setting the bills aside, and coming to the small parcel he had saved for last. Curious, he turned it over, his face relaxing into a smile when he saw who had sent it: his father.

The war had taken, but the war had given, as much as any war could give--it spared him the grief of losing his parents. They still lived in Croatia, as comfortably as Luka could afford to have them live, and they send him sporadic letters, all of which he saved in the same tattered shoe box which held a lifetime of memories. Photographs salvaged from the bombing, their edges all singled and curled from fire and destruction. A stone from the shore, its luster faded with time and rubbed away by the small hands of his daughter. A ring. Not much to show for an entire lifetime; not much at all.

All this passed like lightning across the insides of his eyelids. Luka opened his eyes, unaware that he had closed them, and began to tear carefully at the brown paper.

Inside was a longish note enclosed with a small bundle wrapped in tissue paper and twine. Luka unfolded the note and savored its contents, which were written in the practically illegible scrawl his father passed off as handwriting. _Happy Birthday_, it began, before launching into a lengthy description of the weather, then telling him what he really wanted to know: _your mother and I miss you very much but otherwise we are fine._ A couple paragraphs down: _I started a new painting the other day; your mother wasn't terribly happy to learn that it was her…_

Chuckling, he wondered how his father managed to get his mother to sit still for one of his infamous portraits and moved on to the small bundle. His heart skipped a beat as the tissue paper fell away. Inside, against a bed of soft felt, was a set of paints and brushes. The same kind his father liked to use.

Luka's face broke into a grin as he examined each brush with care. He could almost remember the first time his father had let him hold the brushes; he could remember the reverence and awe that swelled up in his little boy heart. His father painted all the time but it had been ages since Luka held a brush; he picked one up now and wielded it clumsily, painting imaginary strokes in the air, and found that he was in desperate need of practice. That was okay. That would come in time. He had all the time in the world.

There was a small note wound around the handle of the largest brush. Unfurling it, he read:

_Find something worth painting; these are expensive brushes._

Expensive brushes indeed. Find something worth painting? Luka glanced around his room. His fish, a bowl of fruit, his Sony Playstation--no, he shook his head, these he could paint any time with any set of paints or brushes (not, he thought upon a second glance, that he would want to paint his Sony Playstation, as much as he liked it). But these paints and these brushes were from his father, a birthday present, and they deserved a worthy subject, perhaps something he could even send back to his father as an appropriate thank you.

_I started a new painting the other day; your mother wasn't terribly happy to learn that it was her…_

The note caught in a sleepy hand. He let his eyes fall shut, a wave of drowsiness sweeping him away, memories swirling behind his eyes.

* * *

"Susan? What are you doing here?"

"What am _I _doing here?" echoed Susan, looking astonished. "What are _you _doing here?"

"Fashion tip, Susan," said Carter, deliberately avoiding her question, "Mouth looks better shut."

Obediently, Susan snapped her mouth shut. No sooner did she do so before a huge--and knowing--grin spread over her face.

"Stop it," Carter sighed, sounding as weary as he looked. "Abby's asleep."

"Oh?" Susan's eyebrows flew upwards at this pronouncement. "Still recovering?"

Carter was about to say _yes_ when he caught himself. "Please," he snapped, hobbling aside to let Susan in, "I have a girlfriend."

"Like that's ever stopped a man before," Susan snapped right back. She tossed her head with such disdain that Carter was surprised it didn't fly right off.

In the time she took to recover her cell phone, lock the door, and start unpacking the contents of the large cardboard box in her arms, he managed to drag his broken leg over to the kitchen and collapse into one of the chairs. Curious, he opened one of the Styrofoam containers.

"Hands off." Susan snapped the lid shut in his face, cutting off his view of pancakes, bacon, and eggs. "This is for Abby."

"Susan," Carter fairly whined, "There's enough food here to feed a small country."

"Have you _seen _Abby eat?" retorted Susan, planting a bagel firmly in his recently emptied hands.

"I heard that." Seemingly out of nowhere, Abby appeared, hair flattened lopsidedly on one side of the bed and face full of creases from her bed sheets. She smiled appreciatively at Susan, who handed her a glass of orange juice, and turned to Carter. "Morning."

"Morning," said Carter, studiously avoiding Abby's eyes. 

Looking somewhat put off, Abby rolled her eyes.

Susan watched the two with great interest.

"How was your shift?" said Abby.

"Weaver exiled me to triage," said Susan. She popped open the lid of a container and handed it off to Abby. "Flu shot duty."

"Triage?" said Carter. "What'd you do wrong?"

"I don't know." Susan looked annoyed. "Maybe in a past life I ran over a box full of puppies?"

Sputtering with laughter, Abby choked on her eggs.

"Speaking of the flu," continued Susan, unabated, "I was going to ask you how you were feeling, Abby, but since Carter's--_ow_."

On the other side of Susan, Carter glared at her, wielding the plastic fork he had just used to poke her hard in the ribs.

"Carter and Phil had a fight," explained Abby, sounding tired, as she wiped at her nose with her sleeve. 

Susan looked surprised. "A fight?"

"I let him spend the night."

Now Susan looked positively amused. "You let him spend the night?"

"What, is there an echo in here?" interjected Carter, grouchily.

Abby rolled her eyes again.

Susan turned her attention to Carter. "What'd you two fight about?"

"Nothing," he said, listlessly.

"Was it over Abby?" wondered Susan aloud.

"NO," answered Carter and Abby at the same time.

They looked at each other then quickly looked away.

Susan sighed. 

* * *

As soon as she finished her food, Abby retreated to her room. Carter looked as if he couldn't decide whether to look disappointed or relieved.

The rest of breakfast was a largely silent affair. Susan briefly considered going to talk to Abby but decided that she probably wanted to be by herself for a little bit. So, she sat across from Carter at the kitchen table and attempted to coax him into conversation. Which was a lot, reflected Susan, like forcing cattle towards slaughter. 

"How's the leg?" she said, talking around a mouthful of eggs.

"Broken," said Carter, shortly.

Really fat cattle.

"Thank you for that bulletin from the Department of the Painfully Obvious." Susan yawned. "Can I sign it?"

"What?" Carter looked surprise. "My cast?"

"No, your amazing collection of thong underwear," said Susan, patiently. "Yes, your cast."

Miraculously, he cracked a smile. Susan gave herself a mental pat on the back as she got up to poke around for a permanent marker while Carter propped his cast up on a chair.

She found one and settled back in her seat. 

Carter watched her scribble a short note. "It wasn't about Abby," he said, after a moment. "If that's what you're thinking."

"What wasn't about Abby?" said Susan, as she capped her pen.

"Fight," he said shortly.

"Hmm," was all Susan said in reply. "She loves you, doesn't she?"

Carter nearly choked on his bagel.

Belatedly, Susan realized her mistake. "Phil," she hastened to add. "Does she love you?"

Using the heel of his hand to rub at his eyes, he paused for a moment before answering. "Yeah." Abruptly, he sat up in his seat. "Can I see what you wrote?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Knock yourself out."

Twisting his neck, he leaned over and read, in Susan's familiar, loopy scrawl:

_Break a leg. Susan._

Carter groaned. "That's _terrible_."

Susan looked stiff. "I'd like to see you do better."

"Break a bone," he grinned, "And then we'll talk."

"I'll have my people call your people," Susan assured him.

Carter made a noncommittal sound in reply. Thoughtfully, Susan watched him pick at his bagel until he looked up and smiled.

"What?" she said, blankly.

He nodded at her. "You've got pensive face."

Crossing her arms, Susan tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. 

"Are you leaving County?"

* * *

Abby could hear the muffled tones of conversation but was decidedly at a loss as to what Carter and Susan were saying. For awhile she tried to lull herself to sleep but that didn't work. Finally, she sat up in bed, tiptoed to the door, and unashamedly attempted to catch snatches of their conversation.

She frowned in concentration, straining to make out the words, when Susan's voice came through. 

_…amazing collection of thong underwear…_

Abby blinked. What _were _they talking about? 

* * *

"Are you leaving County?"

Carter's eyes widened, just barely, before his face assumed a blank sort of expression.

"Well?" Susan demanded. "Are you?"

Restlessly, Carter drummed his fingers against the table. "Can we not talk about this?" he said, tiredly.

"Okay." He felt her eyes on him. "What do you want to talk about, then?"

Carter blurted the first thing that came to mind. "What do you think of Phil?"

Surprised, Susan looked as if she didn't know how to handle this swift change of topic. She glanced, however briefly, at the door to Abby's room, and then at Carter, who was fidgeting badly and avoided her inquiring eyes. Torn between her loyalty to Abby and her natural proclivity towards being honest, she finally let the latter win out. 

"I don't know her very well but I think she's great," said Susan, as sincerely as she could. "I'm really happy for you."

To her surprise, Carter looked miserable. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Curious, Susan hesitated before speaking, but plunged ahead anyway. "Are _you_ happy?"

Uncomfortable, he laughed. "You know, I don't know."

Idly, Susan began sketching random patterns on her napkin with a lazy fingertip. "How long have you guys known each other?"

"We grew up together."

Susan stopped drawing. "Really?"

"Our families have been friends for a long time," explained Carter. "Old money. That sort of thing."

Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought he sounded just a little bit uncomfortable saying that.

"So how long have you guys been dating?"

Carter frowned in thought. "A couple of months…this time around."

"This time around?" echoed Susan. "There are other times?"

"We dated when we were in med school."

Interested, Susan regarded him curiously. "What happened?"

"I proposed." 

Carter watched with amusement as Susan's jaw hit the ground for the second time that morning. 

"_You proposed?_"

He nodded. "She turned me down," he added, unnecessarily. "I went to County, she went to Northwestern, we kind of lost track of each other."

"Until now," Susan supplied. Then--"How romantic."

"I guess so."

"You must've loved her very much."

"I did," Carter agreed. "But you get over these things." Phil wasn't the only woman in his life to ever leave him. She just happened to be the first in what would be a long line of deserters. 

But he didn't say any of these things out loud.

"Do you still love her?" Susan blurted, before she could stop herself.

Carter hesitated, and Susan watched as his eyes flickered, however briefly, in the direction of Abby's room before coming to rest again on the table. Unexpectedly, Susan flashed back to the night of the accident, her thoughts and feelings a jumble inside her, watching Carter and Abby through a tiny square of glass and feeling almost guilty for it, as if she was spying on them.

_Nothing good could come out of this…flowers never grew out from under rocks…_

"I don't know."

Silent, Susan looked at him. When she spoke, she spoke as gently as she could. "You better make up your mind."

Carter turned to face her again, his eyes huge and lost in his pale face, and Susan was startled to notice the amount of weight he had lost in the past several weeks.

"I know."

* * *

Carter left soon after for a shower and a change of clothes, but Susan stayed behind. Despite having worked the night shift, she was wide awake, her mind racing a million miles a minute. There was something wrong with Carter she couldn't quite put her finger on. Something more serious than trouble with his girlfriend or the prospect of a difficult career choice; something darker that her good intentions and unfailing humor could not touch, and it worried her.

Susan sighed. She spent so much time worrying about everyone else's lives that it was no wonder she had no time for her own. For a brief, self-pitying moment, she wondered if anyone worried over her the way she worried over Carter, or Abby, or…

Speaking of Abby.

Checking her watch, Susan threw a glance toward the closed door. She grabbed a bag off the kitchen table, shuffled over to the bedroom, and rapped lightly on the door.

There was a flurry of activity, muffled by the door between them, and then Abby herself as she spoke up loudly. "Come in."

Susan opened the door. Abby was sitting in the middle of her bed, looking flushed and slightly defensive, and Susan had to choke down an urge to laugh.

"So you heard that, huh?"

Instantly, Abby looked innocent. "Heard what?"

"Carter and I are running away to Majorca."

Abby snorted with laughter. "No," she admitted, "I couldn't really hear anything--except something about thong underwear?" At this last part, she raised an eyebrow at Susan.

"Best not to know too much," said Susan, hastily, as she drew out a thermometer and placed it in Abby's ear. "We're on a need to know basis."

"And I don't need to know." 

Susan nodded in confirmation. The thermometer beeped and, wordless, she turned the display towards Abby. Ninety nine.

"Congratulations," said Susan, holding out a glass of water and a couple of tablets. "You've won yourself a one way trip to the night shift at County."

"Return to sender," Abby coughed, as she swallowed the medication and leaned back against the pillows. "Thanks," she gestured widely, "For all this."

"Nah." Susan waved her hand dismissively. "What are friends for?"

"Holding our hair out of the way as we throw up massive amounts of tequila?" suggested Abby.

"Thank God you're sober."

Abby laughed.

"Really," said Susan, sounding bored as she examined her fingernails, "Just take a bullet for me and we'll call it even."

"Deal," agreed Abby. She took a tissue and blew her nose. "Really, what did you and Carter talk about?"

Susan considered the question for a moment. She couldn't very well tell Abby about Phil, so she settled for the next best topic. 

"Carter's leaving County."

* * *

Thanks to his lack of crutches, Carter arrived at the ER fifteen minutes late for his first shift since the accident--a half-shift--but was thankfully spared from incurring the wrath of Weaver due to an incoming trauma and a good call on his part. Glancing at his blood-splattered shirt, Weaver nodded at him. "Good work, John," she had said, before adding pointedly, "Just in time." 

He chose to ignore the last part.

Changing into a set of scrubs, Carter found a spare pair of crutches and made his way over to the front desk. Several people welcomed him back and Frank shoved several slips of paper in his direction while growling something about not being anybody's personal secretary. The first and most recent message was from a Phyllis Weston over at Northwestern, who was looking for Dr. Carter and would appreciate a phone call at his earliest convenience, if it wasn't too much trouble? The second message, also from this morning, was a reminder from Gamma that they were having dinner tonight and to please be prompt. 

The rest were from the wife of the drunk driver.

Pocketing the first two slips of paper, Carter let the rest fall into the wastebasket.

"Ladies man, are we?" said Chen, with a tease in her voice, as she watched him toss the messages. "It's good to have you back."

"Just call me Don Juan," Carter confirmed with a wink. He pulled down the board. "Thanks, Deb--it's nice to be back."

"You're already in demand. Dr. Weston stopped by this morning looking for you."

"Did she?" said Carter, without much interest, as he grabbed a chart.

"She looked really great." Chen followed him, which wasn't too hard to do since he was moving considerably slower than she. "No scarring or anything."

"Yeah." Carter gave her a tight smile as he bumped into a bed. "Just some bumps and bruises."

"How are you doing?" She watched his face closely as she spoke. "How's the leg?"

Carter almost said "broken" again but settled for "fine" as he nearly knocked over an IV stand.

"Fine, huh?" she laughed, and patted his arm. "Right. You let me know if you need any help, Don Juan."

Carter waved her off. "I'm fine," he assured her. And I don't need any help, he thought, feeling unreasonably irritable, as he turned to treat his first patient.

* * *

To Susan's immense surprise, Abby did not seem moved by her pronouncement. "I said," said Susan, clearing her throat for emphasis, "Carter's leaving County. Or he's thinking about it, anyway."

"Oh," was all Abby said.

Susan looked incredulous. "And this does not surprise you in any way because…?"

"Carter told me."

Now it was Susan's turn to "oh". 

"His Chief Residency finishes next month and there aren't any attending positions available." Abby paused to shrug. "I guess there's nothing left for him at County."

"Nothing?" Susan sputtered. "What about patients?"

"Call me crazy," Abby suppressed a grin, "But I think they have those at Northwestern, too."

"Northwestern?" said Susan, her voice full of scorn. "Is that where he's going? He'll see a tenth of the patients he does now at four times the pay. They don't need him as much as we do."

Looking amused, Abby broke in. "You sound jealous."

"Am not," Susan declared.

Abby looked skeptical.

"Okay, maybe just a little bit," conceded Susan, "But that's not the point!"

"That's entirely the point."

"No way," began Susan, tried to summon a modicum of dignity, "The _point_ is…"

"The point is," interrupted Abby, smoothly, "That you'd do the same if you were in his position."

Susan looked mutinous.

"Besides, it's not like he's thinking about moving across time zones."

Susan looked at her, hard. "You're okay with this."

"Why wouldn't I be?" shrugged Abby.

"I--" Susan faltered and stared at her friend, who was staring back at her evenly, and wondered if it was only in her head that she had seen Abby look so vulnerable just a week prior. "I just can't imagine County without him," she finished lamely.

Abby said nothing.

"I'm going to miss him," Susan said in a rush, with a sudden stab of sadness. "I know he'll be in the same city and it's not like I'll never see him again, but it won't be the same, and he's my friend, and I'm going to miss him."

Abby swallowed a sour ache at the back of her throat.

"Me too."

For a moment, she thought that this would earn her an innuendo-laden comment from Susan, but all Susan did was join her in slumping against the headboard.

* * *

When Abby woke she saw that Susan was gone and the sky was rapidly darkening to the color of ink. Yawning, she slipped out of bed and her pajamas to take a long shower and only emerged after her fingers and toes had considerably pruned. Shoving wet pieces of hair behind her ear, she dried herself off and methodically began to get dressed for work.

She had just finished drying her hair when there was a knock at the door.

Curiously, Abby trotted to the door, her ear close to its flat plane. "Who is it?"

There was a pause before the voice on the other side answered. "It's Luka."

Luka? Unreasonably, some part of Abby bristled. They had not seen each other much since the accident--he worked nights and she called in sick the last couple of days--and so had not really talked since she stormed out of the trauma room a week ago.

Nevertheless, Abby took a deep breath and opened the door. "What are you doing here?"

Luka looked startled at her cold reception. "I'm sorry. Is this a bad time?"

"I've got a shift," she said tersely, and inwardly she winced at the frost in her voice. "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to see how you were doing." Awkwardly, he held out a bouquet of roses, the dark green leaves starred with yellow buds. "Susan told me I should talk to you."

I am going to kill you, Susan, thought Abby, as she took the thorny bouquet off his hands. 

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Can I come in?"

"I've got a shift," she reminded him.

"So let me take you," said Luka. "I'm on tonight. We'll talk on the way."

"Yeah," said Abby, finally, "Okay."

* * *

"You're still angry with me."

Surprised, Abby cut her glance sideways at him, the street lights throwing a pattern of lights on his face. "I didn't think you noticed."

"I'm used to it," said Luka, though without rancor, as he executed a slow right. "You like to get angry at me."

"I do not--" Abby began, indignation in the shape of her voice, before she cut herself off. "Okay, maybe just a little," she admitted, grudgingly.

The light turned red and Luka slowed to a stop. "Why?"

"Why what?" she said automatically.

"Why were you angry with me?"

Why was I angry? Abby considered. She thought about it and realized that, like many other times when she was mad at Luka, she couldn't remember the exact reason why--only that it somehow made her feel better to take things out on someone else and leave them looking as miserable as she was feeling.

"Was it because of Carter?"

"No," said Abby, gritting her teeth, "It wasn't because of Carter."

Carter, Luka thought grimly. Just as he suspected.

The light flashed green and the engine thrummed to life.

"Okay," Abby relented, and Luka imagined he could hear her defenses crumbling away. "Maybe it was because of Carter."

Absently, Luka tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. "Is he doing okay?"

"Who?"

"Carter," said Luka, patiently.

"Yeah," said Abby, a touch of bitterness in his voice, "He's great."

"Who was that woman who came in with him last week?"

Abby shut her eyes, recalling clearly the image of the woman's face. Pale and oval, crowned with a head of hair the color of sunshine, and serious gray eyes. Beautiful, but not in the conventional or flamboyant sense; beautiful because Carter had obviously chosen for himself a woman who cared very much about him.

"Phyllis Weston."

"Really?" Now Luka sounded curious as they pulled into the parking garage. "Dr. Weston? From Northwestern?"

Abby looked surprised. "You know her?"

"Doctors Without Borders," he explained. "We met at one of the orientation meetings."

Well, Abby mused, without a small amount of bitterness, she sure knows how to get around.

Luka glanced at Abby's face, which was now fixed in a determined pout. "You don't like her," he said, with a rare amount of insight. 

"I don't know her," Abby retorted, playing with the loose end of her scarf. "Do you know her?"

Luka thought about it. "Not really," he admitted. "We only talked briefly."

He parked the car.

"Thanks," said Abby, as she listened to the engine die.

He nodded. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Abby looked fine, Luka observed, apart from a slight flush in her face. He got out of the car and trotted to the other side to open her door.

The garage was cold and empty, and their footsteps rang against the concrete of the parking complex like rocks dropped into canyons.

Luka turned to smile at Abby as they walked towards the ER. "Are you still angry with me?"

"No," said Abby, honestly. 

"Good. You're scary when you're angry."

Incredulously, Abby looked at him sideways to see if he was kidding. He was, and she let herself laugh a little. Relax, she told herself.

They walked into the elevator. Privately, Abby was amazed at how easy it was to talk to Luka once she stopped focusing her anger and frustration on him. But then again, Luka had always been relatively easy to talk to as long as she was willing. Not as easy as Carter, but easy nonetheless. 

"Can I paint you?"

"What?" Abby stumbled out of her thoughts. Had she heard him correctly? "What did you say?"

"I said," repeated Luka, enunciating slowly, "Can I paint you?"

Abby was speechless. She stared at him as if he had grown a third eye. Not knowing what else to do, she laughed. "I didn't know you painted."

"You never asked," Luka pointed out.

Squinting, Abby looked at him hard in the eye. "You don't paint."

"Okay, I don't," admitted Luka, a smile on his face, "But my father sent me a set of brushes."

The doors to the elevator opened and Abby stared fixedly ahead as they walked out together, his hand guiding her lightly at the elbow. "Couldn't you just paint a bowl of fruit or something?"

"I want to paint people."

"Nice of your dad," muttered Abby, as they picked their way across the crowded hallway.

"It was a birthday present."

Abby stopped and bumped into a patient, who glared crossly at her.

She glared back.

Craning her neck, she turned around to face Luka. "It was your birthday?"

"Early birthday present," Luka corrected himself.

They walked into the lounge. "When's the occasion?" 

"Next week." He was still smiling at her. Suddenly self-conscious, Abby kept her eyes fixed on the dial as she opened her locker. "So can I?"

"Can I what?" echoed Abby, absently.

The door to the lounge swung open.

"Can I paint you?"

Abby was about to answer when she noticed that it was Carter who had opened the door.

* * *

Catching a glimpse of Abby making her way through the crowded hallway and into the lounge, Carter signed off on his last patient and grabbed his crutches. He entered the lounge just in time to hear Luka say, "Can I paint you?"

What, Carter thought, annoyed, the hell is going on?

To his intense and further dismay, Abby seemed to glance at Carter before shrugging and saying, "Yeah, okay."

Then, turning to him, "Hey, Carter."

Carter plastered a fake smile on his face. "Hey," he returned aloud.

"Welcome back," added Luka. 

"Thanks," said Carter, somewhat stiffly, and he turned to open his locker. He knew he was being a jerk, but it was rather like watching an oncoming train wreck he couldn't stop, and so instead of apologizing he concentrated on angrily shoving things in and out of his locker.

Out of the corner of his eye, Carter watched as Luka turned his attention back to Abby. "I'll talk to you later about it, okay?" Abby nodded back and Luka disappeared into the ER.

Carter watched him go before turning to Abby. "I didn't know he painted."

"Yeah." Abby laughed, sounding somewhat embarrassed. "I didn't either."

"Nude?"

"What?" She shut her locker door and scowled at him. "No."

Tucking his stethoscope away, he shrugged out of his white coat.

"You're off already?"

"Half shift." Clumsily, he donned an overcoat. "Weaver wants me to take it easy."

"Ah." Leaning against her locker, Abby glanced at him, noting how tired he looked. "Have you talked to Phil?"

Carter didn't look at her when he answered. "No."

"Why not?"

He slammed his door shut. "Can we not talk about this?"

Uneasy, she watched him grimace with pain as he shouldered his messenger bag then took hold of his crutches. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"Yes," he said, barely looking at her as he walked out of the room, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know." Frustration welling up inside her, Abby watched the lounge door swing shut behind him. "You tell me."

* * *

Two hours later, Abby found herself wishing that she had called in sick. Not only were they backed up, but they were short a couple of nurses, and triage was overflowing with flu patients. 

Sighing, she leaned against the wall and waited for social services to put her off hold.

"Abby?" Gallant materialized in front of her. "There's someone at the front desk asking for you."

"Yeah," she cupped her hand over the receiver, "I'll be right there."

"He says it's kind of urgent." said Gallant, fiddling with his clipboard.

Idly, Abby wound the phone cord around her finger. "Is he dying?"

"No."

"Then it's not urgent." Impatiently, she willed someone on the other end to pick up the phone. "Tell him to wait."

"I did. He says he can't."

Curiosity bloomed in the pit of her stomach. "Did you get a name?"

He shook his head. 

Sighing, Abby handed the phone to Gallant. "Get social services on the line for the family in curtain three," she said. "Where is he?"

He took the phone. "Front desk."

"Next time, get a name," she called behind her.

No sooner had the words escaped her lips before she heard her own name being called above the din.

"Abby?"

Bristling, she felt something cold and hard crystallize in the pit of her stomach, as it always did when she heard her name shaped by that voice.

"Richard?" she said. "What are you doing here?"

* * *

CREDITS: "Seventeen Against the Dealer" is the name of a novel by Cynthia Voigt. The opening lyric is taken from "Romeo and Juliet" by Dire Straits. Carter's thoughts on losing track of what he wanted and therefore losing track of himself are borrowed from _The Corrections _by Jonathan Franzen. "I'm done. I'm done, okay? Carter can have you" is a reference to the spectacular break-up scene between Abby and Luka in "The Longer You Stay". "Fashion tip--mouth looks better shut" and "You've got pensive face" are borrowed, of course, from Buffy. Oh, and I realize that Luka's father wouldn't write a letter in English, but I had no idea how to translate English into Croatian without making a massive mess of things. If any of you know Croatian and are willing to volunteer your services if I need to translate things in the future, drop me a line. Thanks.


	6. The Door

TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (6/12)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK)

RATING: PG-13

SPOILERS: Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel _Through the Door_

ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This chapter is dedicated to Christe and Lisa for feeding this ER junkie's addiction even from across the Atlantic. Muah. Super-sized thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter Four: charlotte, flutiedutiedute, Jane McCartney, jakeschick, cake, elisa, carb, Carolyn, KenzieGal, Kate, noa4jc, ceri, sunshine, Rebecca Gower, and christe. All I need is love. Read? Review!

SUMMARY: Love triangles, old flames and new, missinginaction!Susan, Abby builds bridges, and the shoe is most definitely on the other foot.

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

The Door

_We were, the two of us, still fragmentary beings, just beginning to sense the presence of an unexpected, to-be-acquired reality that would fill us and make us whole. We stood before a door we'd never seen before. The two of us alone, beneath a faintly flickering light, our hands tightly clasped together for a fleeting ten seconds of time._

* * *

It took a minute for Carter's eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness of the restaurant and a minute longer for him to catch sight of his grandmother occupying a far booth in the corner. In the time it took for him to sidle past the bar and navigate his way through a maze of tables and chairs, he heard the sound of ice clinking against the side of glass and the scrape of silverware against china and the tinkling of the pianist near the bar, but above all he noted the quiet, the kind of quiet only money could buy, such a marked difference from the place he had just been with its constant activity and unending cacophony of noise.

Unconsciously, Carter straightened his tie as he approached the table. His grandmother caught sight of him and smiled. Her hair swept up in an elegant coiffure and a wine goblet delicately balanced between two fingers, she looked, as always, immaculate. 

"Hello, John."

"Hi, Gamma." Carter leaned over to give her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. "I'm sorry I'm late. Something came up at work."

"Something always does," agreed Millicent Carter, not unkindly, as she watched Carter balance his crutches against the side of a wall and take his seat across from her in the booth. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," said Carter, who once couldn't hide a feeling if someone paid him to, but was fast learning the art of Faking It thanks to Abby's largely unintentional teaching.

"Your back isn't bothering you, is it?"

"No," said Carter, and to emphasize his point he smiled. "I'm fine."

Critically, Millicent eyed her grandson. "You really are looking a bit run down, John. Have you been getting much sleep lately?"

"Plenty," Carter assured her, although he couldn't remember the last time he had a night of uninterrupted sleep. "Have you ordered yet?"

"No. We thought it best if we waited for you."

Carter, who had been scanning the wine list, paused. "We?"

"I invited Phyllis to join us."

At the sound of Phil's name, Carter looked up. He caught the curve of her figure like a cut of light across the dimly lit room. From the way she was dressed, she looked as if she too had come from work. For once, though, her hair was not back in a clip but down around her shoulders and it made her look younger. Dazedly, Carter saw not the woman but the girl; the girl on the tire swing, the girl who loved to drink her milk through straws, the girl who couldn't pass a picket fence without running her fingers along the tops of it; and he was reminded very suddenly and very strongly just how much he used to love her.

Halfway across the room, Phil caught sight of him. Carter watched as the expression on her face flickered before she drew her mouth into a determined line. 

"Hello, John." Phil smiled at him, brisk and business-like, and took a seat next to him. From the way she was smiling he knew that she had not forgotten about their fight but was determined to act as if nothing had happened so long as they were with his grandmother.

In response, Carter leaned over and planted what he hoped was an affectionate kiss on the side of her face. As his lips brushed against her skin, he felt the muscle in her jaw contract. When they broke apart, he reached up and gently, very gently, tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, in a manner not unlike the way he had done so for Abby, earlier that same day.

"How was your day?" said Carter.

"Oh, you know," said Phil, her voice light, "Busy." She left out the part about her inability to eat anything all day, so tight with knots her stomach was, and returned Carter's smile.

Carter turned to his grandmother, who was casting approving looks at them both. "Shall we order?"

* * *

Apart from the fact that he looked distinctly out of place in the middle of a busy ER, Abby thought her ex-husband looked more or less the same as the last time she had seen him. Which was, if she remembered correctly, nearly a year ago on her birthday, also the same day she fell off the wagon, so come to think of it she could blame him for one more thing in her life gone wrong, and this was a fruitless line of reasoning so Abby told herself to shut up and pasted a smile on her face.

"Richard," said Abby. "What are you doing here?"

Looking as if he was searching for a place to hide but could find none, Richard walked towards her with as much reluctance as she felt. "Hi, Abby."

"Hi," returned Abby, still with that smile on her face. "What are you doing here?"

"Look, I'm really sorry to bother you--"

"Well, it's a little too late for that, don't you think?"

Richard pressed his lips together tightly. Abby knew what this meant. It meant she was working on his last nerve. 

She felt oddly triumphant.

"I didn't want to bother you," Richard was saying again, "But I'm having some trouble with the doctor--I think he's your boyfriend--and I thought you might be able--"

Abby folded her arms across her chest. "Dr. Carter is not my boyfriend."

Richard gave her a funny look. "I think he said his name was Dr. Kovac."

"Well, he isn't either," said Abby, equably. "And whatever he's doing, I'm sure, is in your best interests as his patient."

"Abby"--and here, Richard hedged, looking increasingly uncomfortable--"I'm not his patient."

Blinking, Abby looked at him. "You're not?"

Before he could elaborate further, Abby watched, flabbergasted, as a small boy with a head full of curly hair ran up to her ex-husband and tugged on his sleeve.

"Dad," the boy cried, pulling earnestly on Richard's cuff, "Where _were_ you?"

Incredulously, Abby stared at Richard. "_Dad?_"

* * *

"How are things going at Northwestern, Phyllis?"

"They're going wonderfully," said Phil, warmly, and Carter was reminded of how much she honestly liked and respected his grandmother. "The charity ball was a big success and we've almost reached our targeted goal."

"That sounds wonderful," said Millicent. "Do let me know if I can be of any more help."

"You've already been very helpful," said Phil, her voice sincere. 

Carter turned to Phil. "How far is the department off the mark?"

She frowned in thought, her fork positioned in midair. "Several million, I think."

Millicent pshawed. "Surely we can help with that; isn't that right, John?"

"Sure," agreed Carter, equably, "What's a couple of million between friends?"

Phil laughed uncomfortably and gave Carter a look that he clearly interpreted as _don't be difficult._

Repentantly, Carter amended his comment. "I'm sure the money will go to good use."

"How is County?" said Millicent, turning the spotlight on Carter. "If I'm not mistaken, isn't your Chief Residency coming to an end?"

"It is," confirmed Carter, and he wiped his mouth on a napkin. "This salmon is really delicious."

Next to him, he thought he saw Phil stifle a smile at his transparent attempt to change the subject. 

"Don't change the subject, John," said Millicent, promptly. "Have you made plans for after your residency?"

Clearing his throat, Carter glanced sideways at Phil, who was making no attempt to side with either person on this topic of conversation. "I was thinking about applying to be an Attending, actually."

"Oh?" Millicent raised an eyebrow at him. "Is County looking for another Attending?"

Carter speared a large piece of fish with his fork. "Not at the moment," he said, before stuffing the entire piece in his mouth, discouraging any further questions on the matter.

Phil nearly choked on her laughter as Carter methodically chewed on his food. 

Millicent looked concerned. "My dear, are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine, Millicent," Phil said with confidence, and she took a sip of her wine.

"What about Northwestern?" Millicent pursued the topic further. "Phyllis, I remember hearing something about a vacancy at Northwestern."

Carter glanced sideways at Phil.

"Yes," she said finally, "Oncology. Not exactly John's area of expertise."

Carter exhaled. "Hey, we get plenty of cancer patients in the ER," he kidded, and he gave Phil a silent _thank you _with his eyes.

Phil glanced back. _You're welcome._

"Such a shame," lamented Millicent, "It would have been a wonderful opportunity for you two to work together."

"It is a shame," Phil concurred, before changing the subject. "By the way, my mother wanted to thank you for the lovely gifts you sent from your stay in Japan last month…"

* * *

Richard looked like he couldn't decide between looking uncomfortable and looking oddly proud. So, he settled for both. "Abby, this is Adam. Adam, this is Abby. Abby is a nurse here."

The boy, Adam, let go of Richard's cuff and trotted up to Abby. Under a mop of brown curls, he looked at her with a pair of bright bottle green eyes. "Hello!" he said cheerfully, in a voice that could only belong to a seven year old, and he stuck out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Abby."

Abby couldn't help it; in spite of the fact that this child was somehow connected to her ex-husband, she felt herself relax into a real smile, her grin mirroring the grin that lit up Adam's entire face. "Nice to meet you too, Adam," she said, and she shook his hand.

Adam, who was still holding onto Abby's hand, dragged her towards Richard. "Have you met my dad?"

Staring at her ex-husband, who was actually looking sheepish (arrogant always, condescending sometimes, sheepish never, so this was a first), Abby fought a strange desire to burst out laughing. "Actually," she choked. "Your dad introduced us, remember?"

"Oh yeah," said Adam, looking unaffected.

Richard smiled, now less nervously, at Abby. "His mother--the patient--is this way."

This can't be real, Abby decided, as she followed Richard--who was holding Adam's hand--down the hallway. She fought down an insane desire to giggle as she watched Adam, with the innate curiosity of a seven year old, poke at crash carts and Richard, who she always thought had the innate maturity of a seven year old, gently reprimand his son. 

_His son._

Richard turned the corner and opened the door to an exam room. Adam trotted into the room first. Looking slightly apprehensive, Richard stepped back to let Abby through next.

Feeling as if she were wearing shoes made out of cement, Abby stepped into the room whose one bed held a woman with the same dark curly hair and green eyes as Adam. The woman wore a pained expression on her face that vanished as soon as she saw her son and her oddly lit eyes brightened when she saw Richard.

Abby stared as her ex-husband walked over, took the woman's hand, and gave her what looked like a very tender and very affectionate kiss on her cheek.

When he was finished, he looked up and smiled, still awkwardly, at Abby.

"Corinne," he said, "This is Abby. She's a nurse here. Abby, I'd like you to meet Corinne, my wife."

_His wife._

Oddly shaken, Abby composed herself. "Hi, Corinne. What can I do for you?"

Corinne sat up straighter and smiled. The first thing Abby noticed was that when she smiled, she smiled with her whole face, just like her son.

The second thing Abby noticed was that she was pregnant.

Very pregnant.

"Corinne's pregnant," explained Richard, somewhat unnecessarily.

"Yes," said Abby, raising an eyebrow, "I see." 

"Eight and half months," spoke up Corinne, looking proud. "We were on our way to dinner when I started having contractions and Richard took us here."

"It was the nearest hospital," said Richard, almost as an apology.

"Dr. Kovac admitted you?" said Abby, checking the woman's chart.

"Yes." Corinne shifted somewhat uncomfortably in bed. "He says he's going to move us up to OB as soon as he can, but they're full."

"They always seem to be," said Abby, professionalism winning out over any sense of personal discomfort, and she smiled at the woman. "Don't worry. I'll give them a call. I'm sure we'll be able to get you there in time."

Corinne looked anxious. "The baby's not due for another couple of weeks. Is this going to be a problem?"

"Not necessary," Abby assured her, and she looked at Richard as well as she spoke. "We'll do everything we can to help you go full term but if that's not possible there shouldn't be any problems with having the baby now."

Nodding, Corinne looked a little more relieved. Fiddling with the chart, Abby stared at the three-soon to be four--of them. Suddenly, she felt as if all the air had vacated the room, taking her power of speech with it. She looked at Richard and she saw her ex-husband. She saw the first man she ever tried to love; she saw the same man who took that love and twisted into something hideous. She saw the husband who cheated on her and the husband who cheated her of her self-respect and her career. She saw the father of her unborn child. She saw him the way she last remembered him as her husband…

_You're not as strong as you think_, he raged.

_No_, agreed Abby, without bothering to turn around as she walked out the door, _I'm stronger._

And then she saw him through a different set of eyes, through two people who saw her ex-husband but saw someone entirely different. Friend. Lover. Husband. Father.

Her own words came back to her in a rush.

_Instant family, huh?_

Feeling as if she was going to vomit, Abby started to backtrack out of the room. "Let me call OB," she said, faintly, hoping that she didn't begin to visibly green. As she turned to leave, the three of them remained with her like an afterimage printed upon the insides of her eyelids, and she blinked away the hotness pricking the backs of her eyes as she fled the room.

* * *

"Thanks," said Carter, as soon as he got the first chance to speak to Phil in private as his grandmother had excused herself. 

Politely, Phil regarded him, her grey eyes cool and steady. "For what?"

"For not saying anything about Northwestern."

Wordless, Phil drained her wine glass of its contents and reached for the bottle. Carter beat her to it and poured her a glass. "You don't deserve it," she said, after he had finished pouring, and she took another sip of her wine.

Setting the bottle back down, Carter suppressed the instinct to snap back and regarded her cautiously. Now that Gamma was gone, he could see the anger shimmering off of her in waves.

"You're still upset," said Carter, quietly.

Phil let out a laugh that was short and sharp. He had not heard her laugh like that since the last time they had fought, which was almost a decade ago, after she had turned down his proposal, and it reminded him, rather wildly, of Abby.

"Where did you go?"

Carter looked blank. "What?"

"Last night," enunciating Phil, clearly. "After you left, I waited for you but you never came back. Where did you go?"

Restless, Carter sat back in his seat, and reached for his wine glass. "I went to Abby's," he said, seeing no reason to lie.

Ever so slightly, Phil bristled, but her voice remained calm. "Abby?"

"She's a friend," said Carter, truthfully. "From work."

"You spent the night."

Carter sighed, his finger tracing the rim of his glass, etching a slow halo. "I didn't sleep with her, if that's what you're asking. We just talked."

Phil, who had been looking perfectly calm throughout this entire conversation, suddenly winced. It took a moment for Carter to realize that it wasn't his first comment which made her wince but his second.

"I'm not asking," said Phil. "I trust you."

"I know you do," said Carter. "I appreciate it. I really do."

"Do you?" interrupted Phil, smoothly. "So tell me, John. Why don't you trust me?"

Gaping, Carter just looked at her for a moment, watched as her face, which was so much like his in the sense that it never hid anything, began to crumble, when they were saved by the reappearance of his grandmother.

* * *

Ignoring calls from patients and doctors alike, Abby made her way blindly through the ER and towards the sanctuary of the lounge. She could feel an ache at the back of her throat, a darkness blackening the edges of her vision, her heart beat loudly in her ears. Stumbling, she banged the lounge door open--

But she wasn't the only one there. A pregnant woman with a waterfall of ash blonde hair was peering at the lockers.

"What are you doing in here?" said Abby, sharper than she meant. "Patients aren't allowed in here."

"I'm sorry," the woman said, in a voice so soft Abby had to strain to hear her. "I was just looking for the bathroom."

"Out the door, down the corridor, and to the left," said Abby, shortly, and too upset to say anything further as she watched the woman walk out of the room. 

As soon as the lounge door swung shut behind her, Abby scrambled at the door to her locker. She was shaking so hard she could hardly stand it. Prying the door open, she clawed at the pack of cigarettes she kept in the bottom of her bag for bad days. Her hands trembled as she managed to force one from its pack. She didn't even wait to run outside. She didn't think she could wait that long. Jamming the cigarette between her parched lips, she fumbled with a lighter and--

"Abby?"

Abby looked up and the cigarette nearly dropped from her lips. Luka was standing in front of the door to the lounge, which had shut behind him, and looking at her with concern.

"I thought you were trying to quit," he teased.

Wrenching the cigarette out of her mouth, Abby threw it, with the lighter, back in the locker.

Alarmed, Luka took a step towards her. "What's wrong?"

"You knew my ex-husband was here and you didn't tell me?" Abby didn't mean for it to come out sounding like an accusation, but maybe she did, and it had its desired effect: Luka looked as if she had driven a very large and very sharp pike into his chest. She watched him flinch and some small part of her felt vindicated by it.

But a larger part of her felt terrible.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, taking tentative steps towards her, "But we got backed up."

"Never mind," she said, slamming her locker shut. "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Wait," said Luka, and he grabbed her arm as she tried to brush by him, "Abby, _wait_."

Firmly holding onto her arm, Luka almost let go when he looked into Abby's face. She was glaring at him, her eyes dark and glittering like small black suns, and her nose was still a little red from the lingering effects of the flu. But that wasn't what almost made him let go. He could see something else shimmering behind the very obvious anger, something darker and much more dangerous, something that threatened to spill out with a force both violent and unpredictable if she let the cracks in her anger show.

Grief.

Luka knew what it was like to experience loss and to grieve for it. So the expression on his face softened as did his grip on her wrist. But she made no motion to escape.

"You saw his family," he said.

Slowly, Abby nodded, some--but not all--of the anger ebbing from her eyes.

"Do you want me to get someone else?"

Abby shook her head. "No," she said, "I used to work in OB. I should handle it."

"I'm sorry," said Luka, and he was still holding onto her, "I should have got you as soon as I saw his wife."

Here, Abby bit at her lip, and she hesitated before saying, "It's not your fault."

For a moment, Abby closed her eyes, feeling small and lonely and lost, feeling as if she did when Maggie used to leave her as a child and as she did when Maggie left her as an adult, feeling the loss of a husband and an unborn child, feeling as if she was being overwhelmed by a wave of grief so vast and so dark that she could let it sweep her away if she wanted it to--

And then she felt the steady beating of Luka's heart as he took her in his arms and he held her.

And she let him.

* * *

After what seemed like a long time but was actually only a couple of minutes, Luka let her go. He gave her one final smile before heading back into the ER. Abby knew what that smile meant: take as much time as you need. 

Closing her eyes, she couldn't help but feel inexplicably confused in light of her ex-husband's sudden reappearance, family in tow, and Luka's unexpected show of--what? She was not completely unused to his touch. When they dated, he touched her; not often, but in small ways that she noticed, small ways that mattered. A hand on her back, a light touch of her cheek, a wrapping of his fingers with hers. In many ways, it was natural for him. He had grown up surrounded by family who loved him and who he, in turn, loved back, and it was not until the war that life began to treat him so cruelly. She, on the other hand, had not grown up surrounded by anyone and had learned how to take care of herself. Strange, though, that Carter, who she suspected grew up more like her than she let on, ended up more like Luka in this respect, with the straightforward and transparent way he cared about people.

All this flashed in her mind like lightning. So when she heard the distinctive ring of her cell phone inside the locker, she jumped. Opening her locker, she flipped the phone open. "Hello?"

"Hey," said a voice on the other end of the line.

Abby cradled the phone against her ear. "Carter?"

"Should we be picking out china patterns together or what?"

"Caller ID." She smiled. In the background she heard the rush of cars driving by. "Where are you?"

"Dinner with Gamma," said Carter, feeling that it was unnecessary to dispel any more information than that.

"Oh yeah?"

Balancing precariously on his crutches without the use of his hands, Carter pulled out a cigarette. "What are you doing three Thursdays from now?"

Abby leaned rather dispiritedly against her locker. "Probably killing myself."

"Great," said Carter. "What time does that finish?"

To Abby's relief, he sounded almost normal; the Carter she knew, rather than the Carter whose face had been completely unknown to her last night. "Why?"

"Thanksgiving," said Carter, promptly. "You've got to get me out of Thanksgiving."

She laughed. "Get yourself out."

Lighting his cigarette, Carter shouldered the cell phone to his ear. "You don't understand. Gamma's got it in her head that it'd be nice to invite the entire Carter family to the mansion."

At least you have a family, thought Abby, somewhat unfairly, but wisely she decided to keep her mouth shut. "It can't be any worse than what I'm dealing with here," said Abby, one hand absently playing with the door to her locker.

Taking a long drag off his smoke, Carter exhaled into the phone. "Why?"

Suspiciously, Abby stared at the receiver. "Are you--smoking?"

A pause.

"No."

"Okay," Abby rolled her eyes, "Once more, with less feeling."

"You smoke," pointed out Carter, quite reasonably.

"You don't," said Abby, quietly.

"All the cool kids do it," he joked, flipping the phone to his other ear. "How's the shift?"

Abby sighed. "Guess who showed up."

"How many guesses do I get?"

"Three," she said, decisively, "And the first two don't count."

Impatiently, Carter sucked on his cigarette. "The Patient Fairy?"

"Richard."

"Your ex?" Carter sounded incredulous, and then alarmed, remembering the last time he had seen Richard in the ER, which had prompted their road trip to Oklahoma. Not that this time had anything to do with Maggie, but…"Is everything okay?"

"Oh, yeah," Abby laughed. "He's here with his wife, who is eight and a half months pregnant, OB is full, and I'm going to assist down here in the ER. Everything is great."

"His wife?"

"He got remarried," said Abby, tonelessly.

"At least one of you learned your lesson," kidded Carter, weakly.

"That's what I said."

Having finished his first cigarette, Carter lit a second. "Are you okay?"

A long time ago Abby learned that you couldn't change the world; you could only live in it and that was hard enough. So she learned how to get along without relying on anyone besides herself. It was, she thought, a bit like moving around in a dark room: at first she felt her way by instinct, but then her eyes adjusted to the dimness, and she learned how to trust her own senses, limited as they were. Carter--meeting him, befriending him, trusting him--changed that. It was as if he cut a door into this dark room, and for the first time she could venture outside and see the stars.

So when he asked her this question, she answered it truthfully. "No."

On the other end, Carter flicked his cigarette, watching as a sharp gust of wind took the ashes and sent them into the darkness like embers flying from camp fire.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not now." Abby checked her watch. Incredibly, it had only been about ten minutes since she left the room with Richard and his family in it. "I'm on."

"I'll let you get back, then," said Carter.

Leaning her head against the metal of a locker door, Abby stared into space. "Carter?"

"Yeah?"

"What was last night all about?"

Speechless, Carter stared into the phone, the cigarette in his hand forgotten. He heard the distinctive clack of heels against the cold cement and looked up to find Phil crossing her arms and shivering.

"Dessert's here," she said. 

Carter covered the mouthpiece with his free hand. "I'll be there in a minute."

Curiously, Phil tilted her head. "Who's that?"

On the other end of the line, Abby closed her eyes. "Is that Phil?"

Dispassionately, Carter looked over at his girlfriend. "It's Abby."

It's Phil, Abby thought.

"I gotta go," he said into the phone.

Abby sighed. "Listen, Carter--"

Phil raised her eyebrow. "Abby?" she said, crisply.

"What?" Carter snapped.

"You don't have to snap at me," Abby snapped right back. She was already feeling on edge thanks to Richard's appearance and Carter's deliberate omission of Phil's presence.

"I wasn't snapping at you," said Carter, feeling trapped.

"Great, so you were snapping at me," snapped Phil, who looked none too pleased about the fact that her boyfriend was talking to the same woman whose place he slept over last night.

Carter closed his eyes. "Phil."

"Look," said Abby, fed up, "I gotta get back to work." 

"_Abby_," he said.

She hung up.

Carter stared into the phone. He looked up. "Phil--"

But Phil had gone back inside.

"Fuck," said Carter, dropping his cigarette, and he ground it out with his shoe.

* * *

"So it looks like we'll be able to move Corinne up to OB within the next half hour or so," said Abby, who, after hanging up with Carter, spent five minutes on hold with obstetrics before she managed to get a room. 

"Great," said Richard, looking relieved, and he glanced into the exam room where Luka was talking to Corinne. "Thanks." 

"No problem," said Abby, smiling tightly, and she followed his eyes. "Do you want some coffee or something?"

Absently, he watched as Luka showed Adam how to use a stethoscope to hear his mother's heart beat. "No," he said, "But I'd like to get Adam some dinner."

"No problem," said Abby. "I can show Adam to the cafeteria if you'd like to stay with"--and she almost choked on this part--"your wife."

Richard nodded. Abby made a move to reach for the door knob when he grabbed her hand first. Surprised, her first feeling was an urge to wrench her hand away. But a second feeling overcame the first and she was nearly bowled over by an odder feeling of rightness. Suddenly, she remembered: in the first few months of their marriage, Richard liked to hold her hand regardless of whether they were at home or out.

_Because you're mine_, he had explained to her. _And I want everyone to know it._

Abby drew in a sharp breath. She wasn't his, anymore; she wasn't anyone's. "What?"

"Thank you," he said. 

"No problem," she said tightly, and then he let her go.

* * *

Phyllis begged off dessert, explaining that she had an early shift tomorrow, and bid a polite but warm farewell to Millicent before giving Carter a perfunctory kiss on the cheek goodbye. 

"Have you given any thought to marrying that girl?" said Millicent, as soon as Phil had left.

"Gamma," said Carter, tiredly, as he sipped his coffee black. Another habit he had picked up from Abby. "We've only been dating for a couple of months."

"You're not getting any younger," said Millicent, severely. "She's a good girl. You'd be lucky to have her."

Irritated, Carter decided that he couldn't take the brackish taste of black coffee in his mouth. He took another gulp anyway. "I don't think she's the type to be had. She's her own person."

"You don't know the first thing about women," sniffed Millicent. "No wonder you're still single."

Despite himself, Carter smiled. "Enlighten me, Gamma."

"Every woman wants to be had, John," she said. "Your job is to make her feel as if she's worth having."

He rolled his eyes. "Gamma, things have changed since you've dated."

"Times change but people don't," Millicent retorted, still sounding severe. 

"I proposed to her," said Carter, tiredly, and he rubbed at his eyes with his fingertips. "When we were in med school. She said no."

"I remember," recalled Millicent. "If I remember correctly, you locked yourself in your room and sulked for days."

"I did not _sulk_," said Carter, looking sulky.

"You were a lot younger then, and so was she," Millicent reminded him, stirring milk into her tea.

Carter stared. "So?"

Millicent put down her cup of tea. "So if you asked her again, I don't think she would say no."

Inwardly, Carter groaned. I cannot believe I'm discussing my love life with my grandmother, he thought glumly.

"I've seen the way she looks at you," said Millicent. "You don't let go of a girl like that."

He said nothing.

"John, I know we've had our differences when it comes to your life…"

"Because it's my life," said Carter, tightly.

"Yes," Millicent gave her grandson a hard look, "It is, isn't it."

* * *

"Hamburgers, hot dogs, or French fries?" asked Abby, turning to Adam, who was clinging to her hand.

"French fries," said Adam, promptly. "I don't eat beef."

Abby hid a smile. "I'm pretty sure our hot dogs are one hundred percent beef free."

"That's okay," said Adam. "French fries are good."

Abby grabbed a dish of French fries and paid for them at the counter. Adam, who had impeccable manners, thanked her profusely. She led them to an empty table where he clamored into a seat and began to tear enthusiastically, if neatly, at his fries.

This, Abby had to admit, was a charming kid. It was hard to believe that her ex-husband hadn't already thoroughly corrupted him. Give him time, she thought.

"How do you know my dad?" inquired Adam, once he finished swallowing his first mouthful.

"Uh…" Abby trailed off. "We used to be friends." That was sort of true.

Adam dunked a fry into a glob of ketchup. "You're not friends anymore?" he queried, his eyes inquisitive. 

"Well, we don't see each other very much," explained Abby lamely.

"Oh. I feel sorry for you," declared Adam. "My dad's the greatest."

"I'm glad you think so," said Abby, although 'greatest' wasn't a word she'd use to describe Richard, even if he was being surprisingly human.

"My mom," said Adam, and he leaned forward conspiratorially, "Says that Dad's the greatest thing since bread came sliced."

Abby felt a sharp pain gnaw at her insides. "Sliced bread is pretty great," she agreed.

Adam nodded, and his face grew serious. "Can I tell you something?"

Folding her hands in front of her, Abby rested her chin atop them so that she was eye level with Adam. "What?"

"I'm kind of worried," he confessed.

"Worried about what?"

Swallowing, Adam tilted his head. "Do you think--after the baby is born--do you think Dad will forget about me?"

"Ah." Abby felt a pang of sadness for the boy, whose green eyes were large and troubled. 

"Because"--Adam dropped his voice to a sad whisper--"Dad's not my _real_ dad. But he'll be the baby's real dad. Maybe he'll like the baby better."

"What do you mean?"

"He's my step-dad," said Adam, sounding wistful. "I wish he were my real dad, though."

Despite the fact that Richard was still a sore point with her and despite the fact that she was looking at his son, Abby found herself overwhelmed by a sudden and strong impulse to make Adam feel better, and so she said, "Do you love your dad?"

Adam nodded. "Yes."

"Does your dad love you?"

Adam nodded more vigorously. "Yes."

"Then he's your real dad," said Abby firmly, and she reached out to brush aside a messy curl that fell across his eyes when he had shook his head. 

To Abby's surprise, Adam broke out in a big grin. "That's what Mom said when I talked to her."

* * *

By the time Abby led Adam, hand-in-hand of course, back down to the ER, she saw that it had been vacated. Abby checked the chart and saw that they had been moved up to OB, which is where they went next.

When she led Adam to the new room, she didn't expect to see what she saw: Luka standing next a nurse, both of whom were wearing big grins on their faces; Corinne, who was tired but beaming…

And Richard. Holding a small bundle in his hands.

Abby looked ashen as Adam slipped his hand from hers and ran over to his mom. "I'm sorry. Adam was having French fries and I thought--"

Luka waved her off. "Don't worry about it. We got her up to the OB in time."

"Luckily," said Corinne, who looked exhausted. 

"When did this happen?" asked Adam, whose eyes were as big as saucers.

"Right after you left, honey," and Corinne reached down to squeeze her son's hand.

"Can I hold her, Dad?" Adam piped up.

Abby shifted her gaze to Richard and finally found her voice. "Her?"

Looking rapturous, Richard finally tore his eyes away from the small person in his arms and looked at Abby. "Daughter," he managed. 

Luka, who had been watching Abby carefully as soon as she entered the room, watched as, in that moment, some part of her crumbled. Then a bigger part of her smiled, the most sincere smile he had seen on her face in a long time.

"What's her name?" said Abby, and she walked over to peak into Richard's arms.

Corinne looked up. "Margaret. Meg, for short," she laughed. "_A Wrinkle In Time_. It was my favorite book as a child."

Richard looked up at his ex-wife. "Do you want to hold her?"

"Hold her?" Abby's voice came out in a squeak and her eyes darted back and forth between Richard and Corinne, both of whom were looking expectantly at her. "Uh, yeah, I mean, I'd love to." 

There was a sour-sweet ache at the back of Luka's throat as he watched Abby, looking as fragile as the baby in her arms, hold the bundle with a wistful sort of expression on her face. Then, carefully, she walked over to Corinne, where she settled Meg into her mother's arms. "Congratulations."

Abby backed away. Corinne, looking faintly rumpled, held her new daughter Meg in her arms. Adam sat on the bed next to his mother, peering at his baby sister with the most delighted expression on his face. Richard hovered over all three of them.

Father, mother, son, daughter. Briefly, Luka was reminded of his own lost family, and his heart constricted. Shaking his head, he looked for Abby, but she had slipped away.

* * *

Midnight. Abby couldn't believe that she was only halfway through with her shift. Groaning, she stretched her limbs for a moment before picking up a new needle and looking expectedly at the door. "Next?" she called.

Richard poked his head in. "Hi."

"Hi." Abby returned his tentative smile. She couldn't believe she was smiling at her ex-husband but then again, it had been a weird night. "Need a flu shot?"

"No," he said, and he glanced behind him. "Do you think we could talk for a couple of minutes?"

"Sure." Abby put down the needle. "By the way, congratulations."

"Thanks." Richard hovered in the doorway. "I just wanted to thank you for all your help."

Uncomfortably, Abby laughed. "I didn't do anything."

"Adam and I just had a talk. He told me what you said."

"Oh," said Abby, and suddenly she felt embarrassed. "It was nothing."

"I know," said Richard, impulsively, and she could tell that he was struggling to find the right words, "That I wasn't the best husband."

Abby was silent for a moment as the words hung between them, suspended in air, the closest to an apology she had ever received from Richard, perhaps the closest she would ever get. Richard gave her the same smile, the same awkward smile that meant this wasn't easy for him either, and Abby wondered if things between them would ever not be awkward, and then she decided that it didn't really matter.

"Thanks," said Abby. "I'm glad things are working out for you."

"They seem to be working out for you, too," said Richard.

Blankly, Abby stared at him. "What?"

"You and Dr. Kovac," explained Richard. 

Rolling her eyes, Abby rubbed at her temples. "We are not dating," she said, aggrieved.

"You should tell him that," said Richard ---and he _winked _at her.

Suddenly, Abby remembered the thing about Richard that attracted her to him in the first place: his sense of humor. Funny, what managed to endure, even after all this time.

"Richard, stay out of my love life," said Abby, but without rancor.

"Duly noted," he said, gravely. "I hope things work out for you."

"I'm sure they will," said Abby, with more confidence than she felt.

* * *

The sun was peaking over the horizon by the time Luka dropped Abby off at her apartment. Pulling up to her curb, he killed the engine and stared at the tired expression on her face.

"You don't seem to be sick anymore," he noticed.

Briefly, Abby brought her fingertips to the window, which was ice cold to the touch. "Yeah."

Slowly, thoughtfully, Luka nodded. "Okay."

She opened the door and got out of the car. Briefly, she ducked her head back in. "Thanks."

Puzzled, Luka looked back at her. "For what?"

Abby gave him a weary sort of smile. "You could've paged me. She was my responsibility. But you covered for me. Thank you."

Luka looked up at Abby, her face tired but radiant in the early morning light, and a million things he wanted to say ran through his head, most of which ran along the lines of _I would do anything for you._

Aloud, he only said, "Don't worry about it."

And she disappeared from his view.

* * *

Feeling as if every bone in her body was about to break, Abby trudged up the icy steps of her apartment building, her cheeks stinging with cold. When she reached the front door, she slipped her key into the lock, turned around, and waved at Luka. She watched his car until it disappeared at the end of the block. Fatigued, she turned back around and was about to open the door when a voice spoke up behind her.

"So you two going steady?"

Abby whirled around. Carter was at the bottom of her stairs, supported by crutches and leaning against her stoop, a cigarette caught between his lips as he gazed up at her. He looked, if possible, even more exhausted than she felt. There were dark shadows under his eyes and a translucent quality to his skin that even the sunlight grazing his face couldn't dispel.

"Carter," said Abby, and her shoulders sagged under the weight of her fatigue. "Not that it's any of your business, but no."

Mutely, Carter looked up at her, his eyes dark and unreadable as he fumbled with a lighter in his hands. "And here I thought you learned your lesson the first time around."

Abby blinked. She slipped her key back out of the lock and descended her steps slowly. The morning was bright, ice and frost on every surface, and the world sparkled like a cut diamond. "Why are you here?"

Glancing at her thoughtfully, Carter lit the cigarette, his eyes narrowing as they concentrated on the flame, and then he reached into his pocket. Wordless, he handed her a crumpled slip of paper.

Looking uncertainly at his impassive face, Abby reached out and took it. "Alicia Holbrooke. 782-2388," she read, and then she looked back at him. "And here I thought you were a one woman person."

Carter smiled as he did only for her. "I am."

Abby heard ice breaking, like shards of broken glass, beneath her heel as she climbed down one more step, drawing near enough to catch a distinct scent caught in the folds of his clothes. "Have you been drinking?" she asked, incredulous.

Suspicion crystallized into certainty as Carter took the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled, the smoke and his breath bursting into clouds the color of his face. "Maybe," he shrugged, and when he smiled it had a bit of an edge to it, like the curve of a blade. "Do I seem drunk to you?"

"No," admitted Abby as a cold fear clawed its way into the pit of her stomach. "Have you been up all night?"

"No," he said, calmly, and he flicked his wrist. "All morning."

Uncertainly, Abby stared at him, the wan morning light throwing his face into sharp relief: cheeks flushed with cold, bruise-colored shadows ringing his eyes, the sharp articulation of bones. "Does Phil know where you are?"

"She's asleep," shrugged Carter. "I think she's still mad at me."

"If you keep showing up here, I'm sure she'll stay mad," said Abby, and she paused for a moment before continuing. "What are you doing here, Carter?"

Taking a long drag off his cigarette, Carter took his time in answering. "Couldn't sleep," he admitted finally, a disquieting look in his eyes.

Abby folded her arms across her chest. "When's the last time you got a good night of sleep?"

Absently, he rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I don't know."

"I'm sure you do."

Head bent, Carter used one crutch to chip away at the ice-slicked cement. "Last night."

"Before that."

"I don't know," said Carter, annoyance creeping into his voice. "A week?"

Abby nearly fell off the stoop. "Since the accident."

Carter threw his cigarette on the ground and ground it out under his toe. "I guess."

The light in the east grew stronger and Abby had to squint to look at him between the bright cuts of light that struck, knife-like, at his slight figure. She stepped down so that she was now within arm's reach of him, their gazes on eye level.

"Gamma thinks I should propose," said Carter, out of the blue.

Sucking in a breath of cold air, Abby felt as if someone punched her in the stomach. "Oh," she managed to say, very faintly, and she heard herself shift her weight from side to side, ice breaking beneath her feet. Then--before she could stop herself--"Are you going to?"

He looked at her intently, their dark eyes locking across the small space between them, their breaths like apparitions in the cold air. "I don't know."

"Well," said Abby, and suddenly the light and the cold were too much to bear, and her head throbbed with the effort, "You better figure it out."

"I loved her once," said Carter, his voice soft, and he kept his eyes on her. 

Abby sucked in a breath. "What happened?"

"She didn't feel the same way back."

Abby stared at him, at Carter, at her best friend. She though, rather dizzily, that maybe they weren't talking about Phil anymore. Maybe they never were. 

"Who knows," said Abby, and she didn't know what she was saying anymore, "Maybe she's changed her mind."

"You think so?" said Carter, his gaze pinning her in place. 

"Do you still love her?" Abby burst out, impulsively.

Carter looked at her steadily. "I don't think I ever stopped."

And then she was falling. Only, she was not falling at all, but slipping, and as she stumbled and pitched forward she was only aware of the fact that she was reaching out for him and he was catching her, as it had always been, their hands clasping together for a fleeting ten seconds of time. But this time something was different. Something inside of her, some place secret and some place dark, told her that something was changing, a balance between them shifting, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Whether it was for the better or for the worse, she could not honestly say, and by the time she opened her mouth to say something, he had let go.

* * *

All right. Before anyone from Camp Carby decides to roast me for laying on the Abby/Luka subtext, I just want to remind everyone that we are only halfway through the story so anything is fair game, including Abby/Yosh. Neener. ;) Next chapter: Thanksgiving Day, Clan Carter pow-wows at the mansion, Abby and Susan shake and bake, Luka pays a house call, and Carter receives an unexpected bombshell. As if his life didn't suck blow pops already. 

CREDITS: The opening passage is from _South of the Border, West of the Sun _by Haruki Murakami. (Favorite. Author. _Ever._) Kudos to you if you caught the door imagery (*coughs* TTD *haaack*). :D "Instant family, huh?" is a reference to Abby and Richard's conversation in "Beyond Repair." "Should we be picking out china patterns together or what?" is from The X-Files and is a shoutout to everyone who sees a little Mulder/Scully in our Carter/Abby. The "Probably killing myself/Excellent, what time does that finish?" exchange is from _Sliding Doors_. A part of the Carter/Abby/Phil phone conversation is definitely inspired by the Carter/Abby/Luka phone conversation in "The Longer You Stay." There are a couple of Buffy quotes sprinkled in there. Spot it, spill it (in your review), win a cameo. No kidding.


	7. Burning the Bridges

TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (7/12)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK). 

RATING: PG-13

SPOILERS: Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel _Through the Door_

ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Writer's block sucks but you guys don't. :D Thanks to all the people who reviewed Chapter Five: Mealz, Kate (cake), Ash, CARBYfan, KenzieGal, Lana, Kate, Ceri, dreaming, jakeschick, carolyn, Emma Stuart, Lesbiassparrow, Saintly Sinner, noa4jc, Anna, plmsERaddict, Sandy, SunshinePix, Rebecca Gower, Charli, and JD. You guys never fail to make my day. Also, thanks to jakeschick and Charli for their beta reads. The passage in question ended up getting hacked to death but your comments were appreciated all the same. Lastly, thanks to everybody for being so patient with this chapter. Hopefully, there won't be any more two-month waits from here on out, God willing and the creek don't rise.

SUMMARY: Susan and Luka prepare to break bread, Carter settles for breaking a heart, and Abby hums a few lines of A-ha. Really. Thanksgiving Day, Part 1 of 2.

***

CHAPTER SIX

Burning the Bridges

__

A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep

Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear:

Although I love you, you will have to leap;

Our dream of safety has to disappear.

***

It started, like few things in her life ever did, with a dream.

Dreams were full of symbols and symbols had meanings and meanings were dangerous. She did her best to stay away from them. For some, darkness was a place of infinity, a place without borders or a place that managed to escape the limits of vision, a place ripe for the flowering of dreams. But for her, darkness had to be a place of rest. She sought that darkness that laid beyond the scope of seeing and therefore rested beyond the borders of life. She sought a darkness without dreaming.

Nevertheless, they were there again: night, and water, and the lights of the city mapped out behind them in a cluster of constellations. The way he looked at her, the way he said her name--it was enough. It was enough for her to be sure; not so sure of herself but sure enough of his feelings for her. Sure enough for her to look upon the dark as a place of infinite possibility, where there were no roads, where there were no limits, where they could wander freely. 

So she mustered what little courage she had and she said something.

Even so, some part of her knew he would turn away. This was not meant to be an easy thing. Nothing ever was; not in her life and not for her. She thought she was making an important gesture by offering him a part of her. He thought she was making no kind of gesture at all by denying him the whole. He wanted her to give. She thought that meant she had to give up.

But in dreams, things did not always happen the way she expected them to.

He smiled at her--the dangerous smile of a man who had nothing to lose. It was a smile curved in amusement and curiosity, knowing and a little bit of malice. It was a vicious smile. It was the kind of smile she imagined the angels wore when they tumbled from the sky as demons exiled from heaven. It was a smile to match the intent of the man who suddenly and startlingly reached out and grabbed her.

Hands that had healed her, hands that had held her close--now they seized her, pulled her, trapped her against him. She lost her footing. His hand tightened around her wrist. She felt her breath catch. She felt the long fingers that shackled her pulse and the breath on the exposed skin of her neck and, in spite of herself, she began to shiver.

"You're hurting me," she said, tonelessly, but she did not attempt to pull away.

She felt him smile against her skin.

"And here I thought I was loving you," he replied, sounding amused.

"Like I said," she said dully, "You're hurting me."

He leaned over until his mouth was by her ear. 

"Don't you wish I would?"

She shut her eyes. "Don't--"

"Don't?" he interrupted, mocking her, his voice like binds of silk cutting into her skin. "Abby, this is what lovers do."

The darkness closed in on her like a living thing and she felt its breath on her cheek. She spoke with some difficulty. 

"You think we're lovers?"

"You think we're not?"

She had no reply to that.

"You never were good at figuring out who you were," he said, still so sure, still so amused. "Or what you wanted."

Her eyes flew open. Suddenly, she craved a light, any kind of light, no matter what the cost--even if it was honesty. 

"I wanted you."

He laughed again, as if this helpless revelation amused him greatly. 

"Me?"

"I don't see what's so funny about it," she heard herself snap.

"Nothing." He shook his head. Then--"Everything." 

She hesitated, honesty a new thing for her, and painful in its rawness. "I never meant for it to be too late."

"I wish it were that easy," he said thoughtfully, a fingertip tracing a path from her temple down to her jaw, and she shivered. "Then again, nothing is ever easy; not with us, not ever."

Silence. Suddenly, she was tired, so tired, of trying to decipher this language, the tongue of dreams, as untranslatable as the rules that dictated her own life.

"Let me go," she said, wearily.

Their faces were so close together they were almost touching. And when he spoke it was not the word she heard but the shape of its breath on her skin.

"No," he said. Ruthless, he tightened his grip around her. 

"Carter--"

"I can't," he interrupted her. "It's my turn."

Before she could ask him what he meant, he continued.

"Maggie, Richard, Luka," he said, softly, scornfully. "In their own ways they loved you, and so they hurt you."

She shut her eyes. But she could still feel him smile, a smile so sharp she thought she would cut herself on it.

"And it's my turn."

She felt something inside of her snap, like a twig beneath her heel, like a piano string, with great violence, and she tried to pull herself free. Her own voice rang in her ears, unusually high-pitched and frantic. "Let me go," she hissed, "Carter, let me go; let me go, Carter, let me--"

Grinning, he released her.

"Go."

And then she was falling, falling--falling into night and falling into water, blackness flooding her vision and knocking her off her feet in a giant rolling wave. Desperate, she flung her hands out to catch hold of something--_anything_--to break her fall, but there was nothing--

Abby jerked awake.

***

The trees outside the window were stripped bare. Sleet burned their trunks black and formed small pools upon their rust-colored leaves. Overhead, the sky was flat and colorless, a palette of ash and soot and bone, ice and rain raising a frozen net of static from the horizon. There was no way for Phil to know that the sun even rose at all on this gray morning. As she sat by the window with her knees hugged to her chest, she thought that suited her just fine.

Carter lay a few feet away from where she sat. He lay asleep on the bed, his eyes fluttered shut and his eyelashes like strokes of ink against his very pale skin. Phil was both a heavy sleeper and a morning person--which meant, for the past month, that she fell asleep before he did and woke right after he dropped off, without any knowledge of his sleeping habits or, rather, lack thereof. 

It also meant that she considered, rather uncharitably, of waking him.

But then she would have to deal with him and she didn't quite feel up to that. So she let him sleep.

It was Thanksgiving Day. In the weeks since the accident they had fought once and made up once. Apologies came between the sheets and in the dark. An uneasy truce was established whereby Carter was obliged to pretend that nothing was wrong and Phil was obliged to pretend that he wasn't lying. Any other agreement and the truce--and their relationship--would come flying undone faster than a roll of toilet paper flung off the roof of County General. 

So she pretended. Like she didn't care if he cancelled on a date, like she didn't notice if he didn't return a phone call, like it didn't matter if he spent more time with Abby than he did with her. 

Abby. She wondered what the other woman could give him that she couldn't.

Phil liked to think that she was secure in her own skin. So she was surprised when she met Abby because the other woman provoked a reaction in her that could only be described as discomfort. 

It wasn't that Abby was especially cold during their brief introduction; she was polite, if a bit distant. But the look on the woman's face was striking: it was the look of a person who never had a childhood. It unsettled Phil because her own growing up had always been so happy.

Now, the discomfort had nothing to do with the way Abby looked--and everything to do with the way Carter looked at her.

Some things were harder to pretend away than others.

Phil believed Carter when he said they never slept together. He wasn't the type to cheat on her--except for the fact that he was cheating on her now in every way that mattered except the one way that supposedly counted. She was angry at him for putting her in this position and angry at herself for putting up with it. She, who loved to look forward, was spending most of her time looking back for the first time in her life. Looking back to find comfort in the past, looking back to see if he was still behind her, looking back to make sure she had not lost him. 

It was worth it--wasn't it? He still smiled at her, laughed at her jokes, looked at her in a way no other man did. And she still loved him. In the end, that was all that mattered--wasn't it?

Sighing, Phil turned to the window, her eyes dark and troubled because she wasn't sure she knew the answer to that question. 

***

There was nothing particularly exciting or enlightening about attending meetings as a seven year veteran of Alcoholics Anonymous. But it was familiar and reassuring in its monotony, which was why Abby found herself spending the morning sitting through her first meeting since the accident.

Not that she had a particular desire to drink. In fact, she could safely admit that she had no desire to drink. She wondered if there was some kind of reward for that. Ten meetings and get your eleventh meeting free. A Dean's List for recovering addicts who could refuse a drink with a straight face. A new car, or maybe an all-expenses-paid vacation to the Bahamas, or--better yet--a large check whose amount began with a one and ended with a handful of zeroes. 

She didn't think so but she attended the meeting anyway. 

She had time to kill before her half-shift and she didn't like the prospect of free time. Cleaning her apartment sounded like a good idea--at first. She quickly abandoned it when she realized that it actually wasn't. Then, she considered asking if Susan needed any help with dinner preparations--before she remembered that Susan was a demon in the kitchen and best left to herself when surrounded by sharp objects. 

Death by cutlery on Thanksgiving Day, thought Abby. Been there, done that.

So, she grabbed a free cup of coffee, settled back in a metal chair, and zoned out at a meeting. Her mind drifted and she let herself be carried by the current of dreams and memories. 

Dreams were dangerous. She never could tell whether they were unintelligible truths or intelligible lies. Nevertheless, truths and falsehoods alike, all came to her in the guise of those she trusted, like Carter. The expression on her face flickered as she recalled snatches of her dream from the previous night. She couldn't trust it; she didn't believe the words coming out of his mouth because he would never say those kinds of things, not to her and not like that. 

Or maybe she didn't want to believe.

Memories were different. She could not deny the hold that the past had on her even as it was losing its relevance. Never in her life could she remember another time like this: when she wasn't getting divorced, getting an abortion, getting drunk, getting kicked out of med school, or getting over a messy relationship. Strangely, her life had developed a pleasant sort of monotony since she buried her mother. It was bewildering: she didn't know where she was going but she knew that she was going somewhere, at last and at her own steady pace.

She never told anybody but she was terrified. Life had thrown her so many curves that she always thought that living was tantamount to running in circles in which there was no destination and direction hardly mattered. Now, she was amazed and a little bit annoyed to find something of a non-circular path in front of her. Not quite the two roads diverged her undergraduate studies had prepared her to see, but something reasonably similar to it if she wanted to get metaphorical about things. As a practicing pessimist, she objected to this kind of rapid turnaround. Life was a lot of responsibility for someone who had always treated it as an afterthought. Too much responsibility if she really thought about it. 

There was something to be said about the ties that anchored her to her mother. They were the ones that held her back, that excused her from life, and that she had grown complacent in wearing; but they were also the ones that gave her direction and purpose. She may have felt lighter without them but she also felt strangely adrift. The weight of responsibility was one weight she was used to bearing and the sudden lightness was unbearable.

She supposed that was why she looked to Carter. She needed someone to hold on to and he had always been there for her. Strange, that she was beginning to lose her way without him just as he was beginning to find his way without her. She took it for granted that he would always be there for her.

And, remembering the way he had looked at Phil under a wintry light, Abby was beginning to realize that she had taken a lot more than his friendship for granted.

***

Groggily, Susan awoke. As she yawned, she felt the remnants of a dream slipping through her fingers like sand. She caught at a few of the images: night, and a mob, and she was running. Puzzled, Susan thought harder. The images revealed themselves like a deck of upturned cards fluttering to the ground. A tunnel. Her only means of escape. She slid down it. When she emerged, she looked down at herself to find that she had become--

A peanut M&M? 

Yellow, too. Did it have to be yellow? That definitely clashed with her blonde hair. Susan groaned as she stared at the ceiling, and one hand reached out to crumple the innocuous looking chocolate wrapper by her bed. No more snacking before bedtime. She shut her eyes and the rest of her dream revealed itself: a pagoda strung with Christmas lights, a microwave burrito, and Rocket Romano wearing nothing but a turquoise koala bear strapped to his chest.

Susan didn't want to know why she was dreaming about Romano and what it said about her subconscious. Bad things, she was willing to bet. Very bad things.

Startled, she sat up in bed. The buzzer to her apartment was buzzing and a voice was coming out of the intercom. She checked the time. Noon.

Wrapping her bathrobe around her, she yawned and stumbled to the intercom. "I'm awake," she yelled into it. "What do you want?"

The voice from the intercom paused. "Susan?"

Surprised, Susan stared at the intercom. "Luka?"

"I came by to see if you needed any help."

English garnished with a Croatian accent. No doubt--the voice was definitely Luka's. She punched the appropriate button. "Come on in."

Susan left the front door ajar and started a pot of coffee by the time Luka made his way to her apartment. Nevertheless, he knocked.

"Come in," she called over her shoulder. 

"Hey," said Luka. "Did I wake you?"

"No." Susan squinted at his figure. Despite the fact that they had both worked the night shift and she looked like a rough approximation of hell, he looked as fresh as a daisy in a detergent commercial. 

Bastard.

"I'm sorry," said Luka, repentantly. "I wanted to see if you needed help with dinner."

"Oh." With a flip, loathing became gratitude and she did her best to smile at him in spite of her sleep deprivation. "Don't you need to sleep?"

"Don't you?" he countered, and he put down a platter in his hands she didn't notice he was holding.

"I laugh in the face of sleep." Susan yawned. "Ha."

"I didn't know what to bring," admitted Luka, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the platter.

"Yourself," said Susan.

Blankly, Luka looked at her. "What?"

Susan opened a cabinet and took out the sugar and cream. "All you had to bring was yourself."

"I brought vegetables," said Luka.

"Vegetables are good," said Susan. 

Unsure, Luka leaned back against a counter. He watched as Susan opened and closed cabinet and refrigerator doors, pulled out dishes and put back others, with the confidence and efficiency she showed in the trauma room--in spite of the fact that she was wearing a ratty bathrobe and her face was stamped with creases from the bed sheets.

He grinned.

"Do you want me to go?"

"No," said Susan, unexpectedly, as she placed the vegetables in the refrigerator. "Stay. I could use the help."

"Thank you for inviting me," said Luka, who had planned to spend the day doing his laundry and working on the half-finished portrait of Abby. Susan had found out about his plans when they clocked out of their night shift together and insisted that he eat dinner with her and Abby. 

Susan loved to cook. It was one of the few things besides medicine she was really good at. (The others included Scrabble, pet-napping, and drinking cocktails festooned with drink umbrellas--preferably on a beach, preferably next to Antonio Banderas, preferably sans clothing.) Abby, on the other hand, loved the microwave. She could throw together a decent meal if she wanted to (and Carter could testify to that fact) but mostly she didn't want to. 

Susan declared that she would cook and Abby would clean.

Apparently, Luka was going to help out.

"Thanks for helping with dinner," said Susan aloud, echoing her thoughts. "Besides, the more the merrier."

Luka smiled. Privately, Susan thought that he had a very nice smile. Rare, but nicer for it.

"What do you want me to do first?"

"Coffee," said Susan, promptly, and she held up the pot. "Sugar and cream?"

***

Nobody but Millicent Carter actually had a driver but everybody had a fondness for expensive cars so the grounds outside the family mansion looked not completely unlike a Mercedes Benz dealership on Thanksgiving Day.

The family was in various stages of arrival. All of them were late, though mostly fashionably. All of them were immaculately dressed. To Carter, all of them were variations on the same theme--and that theme was money.

A martini glass rested in one hand and he used the other to shake hands while his eyes observed the dynamics of his family at work. The adults were chatting in small clusters between the foyer and the wet bar while everyone under the drinking age--and most of his favorite relatives fell in this category--formed a rough semicircle around the television. Meanwhile, Gamma was overseeing dinner preparations in the kitchen. In spite of her advantaged age, or perhaps because of it, she refused to let anyone else run the hired help and nobody really objected.

Glumly, Carter leaned back against the wall. He didn't mind his family--but that's as far as the sentiment went. Frankly, he couldn't identify with most of them although they were nice enough. Maybe he just wanted to tell himself that he couldn't identify with them when he really could if he put in the effort. Even after all this time, he was still uncomfortable with the fact that he was a _Carter_--and most of his relatives were perfectly comfortable with the trappings of their legacy.

Neither his father nor his mother had arrived yet. His mother had called yesterday to say that she probably wouldn't be able to make it and Carter didn't blame her. Gamma was intimidating enough and he couldn't imagine what it was like to have to face the entirety of Clan Carter as the divorced wife of the most favorite son. Might as well run with scissors or play in traffic. Still, he expected and hoped to see his dad.

Phil hovered at his elbow. She looked stunning as usual. Today she was wearing cashmere with a string of pearls around her neck but she still managed to avoid looking like a card-carrying member of the AARP. He couldn't figure out what was bothering her, though. She barely spoke to him all morning. He had a feeling it was something he did but he was concentrating so hard on trying to function on a perennial lack of sleep that he didn't have the faintest idea what he was doing wrong. His mind was preoccupied with other matters--like the strange phone calls he had been receiving in the middle of the night. It was always the same phone call: the harsh jangle, silence when he picked it up, the barely audible breathing of a woman on the other end before she hung up. At least, he thought it was a woman. No way to be sure.

He was supposed to be making conversation with a great aunt, a Carter by marriage whose first name was Gertrude or Beatrice or something to that effect, but Phil was doing most of the heavy lifting for them both. He felt bad but his glass was empty and he needed another drink if he was going to make it to dinner. So he ducked away just in time to miss a murderous glare from his girlfriend. 

He spied his favorite cousin among the crowd gathered in front of the television. She was sitting atop a stool at the wet bar. Most convenient. Although she was only sixteen, she held a glass filled with something that looked possibly alcoholic.

"Jacqueline," he said, ruffling her hair as he passed by.

Her smile turned into a mock scowl as she smoothed her hair back in place. "I hate it when you call me that."

"Your mother hates it when I call you 'Jake'," Carter pointed out.

Swinging her legs, Jake grinned broadly. "I know."

"It's a little early to be drinking," he kidded, noting her glass. "Delinquent."

In reply, she reached over the bar to poke him in the shoulder. "Pots and kettles."

Carter picked a bottle at random from the liquor cabinet. "Sticks and stones," he said, returning her poke. "You're a long way to twenty-one."

"Twenty-one?" Jake rolled her eyes. "I thought you graduated from med school, not the police academy."

Shrugging, Carter reached for the ice bucket and dropped a couple of cubes into a glass. "Can I get you anything?"

"Now we're talking," said Jake, gleeful, as she swung her legs around so that she was facing him. "I'll have another of the same, bartender. Coke--straight, no chaser."

"Too fast to live," said Carter, reaching for the glass she slid to him, "Too young to die."

"Can't be helped," said Jake, airily.

Carter poured her soda and poured himself a scotch. He walked out from behind the bar to join her on a stool. "I thought your parents were going to skip dinner in favor of Maui."

"Me too," said Jake, with a delicate shrug of her shoulders. "Not that I'm complaining. I'd rather be here than"--she made a face--"Maui."

"Huh," mused Carter. As always, his favorite cousin was a bit out of place in her family, who used holidays as an excuse to globetrot when Jake preferred to stay at home. Maybe that's why he liked her so much. "Misfit."

"Pariah," Jake shot back.

"You think you're so smart, don't you?" he teased her.

"I don't think, I know," said Jake, matter-of-factly, but the smile took the conceit out of her words. "You've got a new flavor of the month," she changed the subject, with a jerk of her chin.

Absently, Carter looked up, his eyes immediately finding Phil across the crowded room. She was talking to one of his cousin's wives. Her bright head of hair made her stick out in every crowd--in a good way. "More old than new if you really want to know about it."

"She's pretty," observed Jake, leaning back with her elbows on the bar. "You have a thing for blondes."

"I do not have a thing for blondes," Carter rolled his eyes, tugging on a curl of his cousin's hair as he did so, which was a very pretty shade of brown. "I like your hair plenty."

"Is it true?" said Jake, ignoring the compliment.

"Is what true?" said Carter, watching Phil across the room as she laughed.

"Blondes have more fun."

Carter turned his attention back to his cousin, who was glancing at him with wide eyes over the rim of her glass.

"Only when they're with me," he winked, and he took a sip of his drink.

***

Dinner was scheduled to start in a couple of hours when Carter slipped away from his cousin and wandered through the less densely populated halls of the mansion. A headache had started some time between his second and third drink; it was as if a giant needle had decided that the fastest path between two ears was a straight line through his head. 

He slipped into the library. The door shut behind him and he paused for a moment with his forehead pressed against it. Jake--with her youth, her energy, her boundless optimism--had exhausted him. Yet, he couldn't shake the niggling feeling that it wasn't so much exhaustion he was feeling as an unhappiness that shook him to the very marrow of his bones. When he looked at Jake, he was reminded of someone he had lost: himself.

When did it happen? All at once, it seemed, in the crunch of metal and the shattering of glass and the rip of tires through the rain. Suddenly, he wasn't happy with anything--not his job, not his girlfriend, not his life. He began to feel guilty for everything in his life that made him happy when he was a witness to those around him who had nothing. He couldn't help but feel that this was partly his fault. Bobby, Lucy, the man who hit him in the rain; Carter couldn't shake off the feeling that there was something he could have done--should have done--to save his parents, a mother, a pregnant wife, from that kind of grief, a black and rolling wave that swept everything away and left nothing in its wake.

Maybe it didn't happen all at once. Maybe it began a long time ago and he had spent the duration of his young life trying to move on: he became a doctor, beat his addiction…learned to let go of Abby. He had to move; forward, always forward, as far as he could from a past that held nothing for him.

"Hello, John."

Startled, Carter whirled around. "Dad?" He was surprised to see that his father had arrived but managed to escape his radar. "What are you doing here?"

Rising, his father stepped out of the shadowy alcove of an armchair to stand before the window. Carter could make out the silhouette of a glass--scotch?--in his father's hand.

"I could ask the same about you," he said, humorlessly, although he smiled at his son. 

Cautiously, Carter made his way over to the window. By this time he was surprisingly mobile on his crutches so he made his way without much difficulty to stand across from his father. With their thin faces, patrician features, and erect bearings, a stranger who glanced into the room would have known them for father and son. A passing glance would have mistaken them for two of the same person.

"Happy Thanksgiving," said Carter, and he shook his father's hand.

Jack Carter nodded. "Where's your mother?"

"She's not coming."

"Pity."

Mildly, Carter raised an eyebrow. "That's not very nice."

"Neither is your mother." Jack took a sip of his scotch. "How are you?"

Carter glanced outside. It had begun to snow when he wasn't looking and a fine dusting covered the dead grass. "I'm fine. You?"

His father ignored the question. "You look different."

"Different?" Self-conscious, Carter shifted in place. "How?"

"Older." Thoughtfully, Jack studied his son's face. "You look like you've aged six years since I saw you last."

"It's been a long time," Carter pointed out.

"It hasn't been six years." Jack scrutinized his son who, in the gray light, looked even paler than he already was. "Having trouble sleeping?"

Balancing himself on his crutches, Carter ran a hand through his short hair and shrugged. "Is it that obvious?"

"If it wasn't, I could hardly call myself your father." 

Carter nodded.

Then, as an afterthought--"How's your mother?"

"Mom?" Absently, Carter fingered the pack of cigarettes in his pocket and felt the sudden craving for a smoke. "She's good."

This time, his father nodded and gestured for them to sit down. "How'd you break your leg?"

"Car accident," said Carter, shortly.

"Are you still driving that Jeep?"

Briefly, Carter thought about all the damage done to the front and driver's side of the Jeep. "Not anymore."

"I'm glad to see you're okay." Jack drummed his fingers against the side of his glass and stared outside the window. Carter followed his gaze. A flurry of snow cast a white cloud over everything; it was like trying to look through a glass fogged up by the warm breath of a child. "How is Phyllis?"

"Phil's great," said Carter, and he felt himself grow slightly annoyed at the endless stream of questions. Pointedly, he asked again, "How are you, Dad?"

Jack paused long enough to finish off the rest of his drink. The ice tinkled against the sides of the glass. That, the ticking of a grandfather clock, and the faraway drone of voices were the only sounds in a room otherwise governed by silence. 

"We need to talk, John."

The window rattled.

"About?"

Jack didn't waste any words as he poured himself another drink. "I'm resigning from my position as Treasurer of the Foundation."

"Are you asking me to take your position?" said Carter, neutrally. "I already have a day job."

"No." Jack put down the drink. "Your grandmother is resigning from her position as President. I'm asking you to take hers."

Stunned, Carter blinked. His vision seemed cloudy, his father's face as pale as the frost that had begun to cling to the windowpanes. "Why?"

Jack put the glass down and gave his son a severe look. "Your grandmother is old, John. She no longer feels she has the energy to run the Foundation."

"No." Angry, Carter sat forward, his head full of questions. "Why are you resigning? Why aren't you taking her place? Why am I being asked to run the Foundation? You know I love my work at County."

Outside, the wind picked up and beat against the window. The voices in the other room grew louder and the clock in the room chimed. However, Carter didn't hear a thing. The snow fell and time passed but there was nothing for him except his father and a half-finished glass of scotch. Later, he would think about that glass and wonder if his father ever finished it.

His father leaned forward in his chair. He looked faded and tired. 

"John," he said, "I have cancer."

***

Luka squinted at the specimen in his hands. He poked at the squashy center with a tentative finger. It had the consistency of an internal organ in spite of its rich color. Mistrustful, he looked up at Susan. "What's this?" 

"Pumpkin pie," said Susan, with authority, and she took it out of his hands and put it back atop the kitchen counter. His fingertip had left a slight dimple on the surface but it wasn't anything a little whipped cream couldn't fix. Meanwhile, the look on Luka's face was priceless. It was the look of a person vaguely boggled by the existence of pumpkin pie.

"Huh," said Luka, and he turned his attention to more familiar territory.

"That's a potato," said Susan, helpfully.

"Very funny," said Luka, cutting his eyes sideways at her as he began to wash and peel the potato in question.

"My mother always said I was the laughingstock of the family," said Susan, her tone solemn.

"Really?"

"Nah," shrugged Susan. "She said I was a lot of things but 'funny' wasn't one of them."

She watched the corners of Luka's mouth quirk.

"Funny looking," continued Susan, breezily, "On the other hand, is an entirely different matter."

Before Luka could answer, the buzzer to her apartment sounded. Susan rinsed her hands in the sink and trotted over to the intercom.

"Little pig," said a tinny voice from the outside.

"Very funny," said Susan, dryly, and she made a face as she pressed the appropriate button.

"Who's that?" called Luka from the kitchen.

"The big bad wolf," said Susan. She walked back to the kitchen and set to work at peeling the last potato with surprising efficiency. She had just finished washing the newly bald potato and setting a pot of water to boil when there was a knock at the door.

"I'll get it," volunteered Luka. He jogged over to the door and undid the locks. When he opened the door, he grinned. "Happy Thanksgiving."

Surprised, Abby looked up from the brown bag she was holding gingerly between her hands. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey." Susan brushed by Luka and held the door open wider. "Come in."

"Thanks." Abby brushed a few flakes of snow off her coat and stepped inside. The two of them scurried into the kitchen.

"I hope you don't mind," said Susan, dropping her voice. "He didn't have any plans."

"Mind?" Abby glanced backwards and watched as Luka hung up her coat, which she had carelessly slung over the back of a couch. "Not at all."

"You brought pie," said Susan, returning her voice to normal. "I've got pumpkin."

"Well, this one's apple," Abby replied. "Homemade."

"You bake?" said Luka, coming up behind them, his tone incredulous. "I didn't know you baked."

Grinning, Abby took out a carton of ice cream from the same brown bag that held the pie. "You never asked."

Luka made a sort of harrumphing sound. "How was your shift?"

"Sucked," said Abby, succinctly. It was the usual Thanksgiving Day fare--people choking on turkey bones, a handful of patients with indigestion, and one father nearly took off his thumb with an electric carver. But there was one patient who didn't seem to fit: a woman with a miscarriage. Abby shook her head, remembering the woman whose face was extraordinary in its very ordinariness. Most of it was hidden by a waterfall of blonde hair except a pair of startling eyes, the very shade of last summer's forget-me-nots or the ocean aged in a forgotten photograph. Abby remembered them not because of their color but because of the terrible expression they seemed to cast: they were windows to an empty room.

Abby pushed the memory to the back of her head. "Potluck was great, though."

Sternly, Susan wagged a wooden spoon at her. "I hope you didn't spoil your appetite."

"The thought never crossed my mind," Abby promised, standing alongside Luka as they watched Susan open the oven door to check on the turkey. "When's dinner?"

"I'd say give it another couple of hours," said Susan, reaching in with a mitten-covered hand to baste the turkey. "Give or take."

Abby peered into the oven. "That doesn't look like Shake and Bake to me."

"No way," said Susan. "The stuffing's homemade."

"Really?" said Luka, joining them for a preview. "Wow."

"I thought you were going to use that box of Shake and Bake," protested Abby. "That's why I dropped it off last week."

"That thing?" Susan burst into laughter. "Abby, that box expired with eighties hair metal and A-ha."

"Who's A-ha?" wondered Luka.

"Take On Me," said Abby, and then she proceeded to hum a couple of bars. "No?"

Luka shook his head. 

"I guess you just can't find Norwegian pop in Croatia," said Susan, as she got up and closed the oven door. 

"Exactly," grinned Luka, with a thumbs up.

Abby was struck by a bout of déjà vu and had to smile.

The phone rang. Susan picked it up. "Hello?"

"Hey," said Luka, with a poke, and Abby looked up.

"Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Mom," said Susan, and she grabbed the cordless phone to walk out of the kitchen. 

"What?" said Abby.

Susan cradled the phone to her ear and motioned at Luka. "Yeah," she said to her mom, "I'm cooking."

"Are you working tonight?" asked Luka, as he followed Susan's pantomime and began to load the potatoes into a boiling pot of water.

"Nope," said Abby. "Paid my dues with my half-shift."

Susan's voice floated into the kitchen. "I invited some friends."

"Me neither," said Luka. "Do you mind sitting for me tonight?"

"No, I'm not cooking for a boyfriend," said Susan.

Abby opened her mouth to answer but was cut off by a loud and undignified squawk. 

"_Mom_," howled Susan. "There's nothing wrong with being single!"

"Sure," said Abby, and she took it upon herself to start setting the table. Grabbing a fistful of forks and knives, she walked towards the kitchen table. "How far are you?"

"Halfway," Luka called from the kitchen. "It should be done by Christmas."

"Can I see it?" asked Abby, even though she knew what his answer would be.

"Not until it's done," they said in unison, and Luka threw a balled-up napkin in her direction. She ducked. 

"It's just a painting," teased Abby. "I don't see the big deal."

Luka was ready to retort when Susan walked back into the kitchen. Abby saw the look on Susan's face. "That bad, huh?"

"Argh," said Susan, looking harried, and she jumped as a cell phone went off.

"Mine," Abby said apologetically, and she walked over to her bag. "Hello?"

"Having fun?" said the voice on the other end of the line.

"Actually," said Abby, and she couldn't help herself when she smiled, "I am."

***

The light was beginning to fade by the time Carter hung up with Abby and escaped through the back door of the garage. He threw the door open and found himself ankle-deep in snow. The wind slammed the door shut behind him. He groped his way through the rows and rows of cars huddled in the cold. His crutches banged carelessly against the tires dampened by fallen snow as he threaded his way through the snow-covered mounds. There was a faint nausea in his stomach. He didn't feel much like dinner. He felt like running, running away, as far as his one good leg could take him.

"Where are you going?"

The voice rang out clear in the cold and empty air. Carter stiffened. 

"Away," he said, and he turned around slowly. Phil stood a few cars away from where he stood, wearing nothing but a cardigan and violently shivering. He softened. "Go back inside," he said. "You're freezing."

"So are you," she said shortly, and she walked towards him. The snow muffled the sound of her heels and Carter realized that was why he had not heard her approaching. She stopped an arm's length in front of him. Unlike with Abby, he did not have to bend his neck to look at her directly in the eye. Phil was tall and had always been so. 

"Where do you think you're going?" she said. "Dinner's about to start."

Painfully, Carter shifted the weight of his body so that it was resting on his one good leg and he leaned his crutches against one of the cars. He shrugged out of his overcoat and dropped it awkwardly around Phil's thin shoulders. "I'm not hungry."

"I don't think that matters," said Phil. She ignored the gesture. Even in the rapidly diminishing light, he could still see the pupils of her eyes piercing his, as if she could see all the way to the back of his head. "You can't just leave."

"It's just dinner."

"It's your _family_."

They glared at each other.

"_Family_ doesn't even begin to describe what we are," said Carter, shortly. He grabbed his crutches and he turned to leave.

Phil caught at a crutch. "Because you keep running out on it," she said coldly, and she forced him to face her. "What are you running away from?"

"Go back inside," said Carter, shaking her off. "You're freezing."

"John," said Phil, and when she spoke it was not without a little bit of despair, "You can't run out on your family, not on Thanksgiving."

"Family?" Carter laughed, his breath exploding into clouds in the frigid air. "You call this a family? Phil, did you even talk to any of them?"

"I did," she said. "Did _you_?"

"None of them actually want to be there," snapped Carter, as snatches of his conversation with his father came back to him in pieces. _I have cancer. _Those terrible words echoed in his head like a pebble dropped into an empty well and he closed his eyes, remembering his father's last words before he went to rejoin the family, leaving Carter alone in the cold room…

__

If you don't take the position, you don't want to be around when the rest of the family fights over it. It's a responsibility, John--it's your_ responsibility. But it's an honor. Not a burden._

Carter thought of families like Jake's. No doubt her father would agree with his and no wonder that they skipped Maui in order to make a showing at Thanksgiving. Aloud, Carter said, with a mixture of viciousness and disgust, "They're there because none of them want to get cut out of Gamma's will."

Shocked, Phil recoiled. "How can you say that?"

"Because it's true," said Carter, his voice like ice water. "Nothing but blood and money keep this family together. It's an act," he spat, thinking of men like Jake's father. "That's all it is. I don't want any part of it."

"It's an act as long as people like you leave it," Phil retorted, through chattering teeth.

"I'm hardly the first." Carter gripped his crutches tightly. _I have cancer. _His voice broke. "I won't be the last."

Phil watched as he turned around and continued to limp forward. But he was too slow on his crutches to escape her and so she caught up with him at the gates that led outside.

"John," she called, breathless from the cold that shook her to the bone. "Wait--what are you talking about?"

Carter paused at the gates and turned around to look at Phil. Her hair had fallen from its neat chignon and swirled around a face as pale as the snow. She looked younger, more vulnerable, more afraid; and his heart ached because anything he did to comfort her would not help but hurt her. 

A cab pulled up outside the gates. Swiftly, Carter opened the gates and slipped outside. He closed them behind him before Phil could follow. She tugged on the handle and heard the rattling of the iron bars but, locked, the gates did not open. Dumbfounded, she stood shivering under the weight of his coat still around her shoulders.

"You're really going to leave?" she said quietly.

"I really am," said Carter, his voice equally as quiet. 

"You can't." Her hands reached out to grip the icy bars of the gate, as if by gripping them she could keep him here with her--in the cold, in the ever deepening darkness. "Millicent will never forgive you for this."

"She will," he replied, his eyes clouding over. "She has to."

Phil felt her chest tighten with annoyance--annoyance that was sharpening itself into a fine crystalline point that would bleed her if she didn't use it to bleed him first. 

"I don't understand you," she said.

"It's not your fault," he said.

Phil seethed. Everything she had worked so hard to conceal over the past month began to escape from its tightly sealed place. She heard the rage spill into her voice as she watched him turn around to walk away. She was tired of pretending.

__

"If you walk out on me now," Phil shouted into the wind, _"Don't even think about coming back."_

Carter turned around so that he was facing her. His hands reached out and between the bars to brush at the snowflakes that caught at the edges of her hair. He saw a woman who clung to the bars of a locked gate, who stood shivering in the wind and in the snow, who followed him out into the cold, who refused to let him go. He saw the gate that separated them both and it saddened him. In some ways, they would always be separated by the very things that drew him to her in the first place--her happy life, her uncomplicated beauty, her steadfast loyalty to family and all its blue-blooded trappings.

"I love you," he said. "Now go back inside. You're freezing."

Too stunned to reply, Phil stood and watched as the cab disappeared into the thickening whiteness, taking Carter with it. Eventually, her hands fell from the gate. The snow continued to gather underfoot.

***

CREDITS: Opening lines taken from the poem "Leap Before You Look" by W. H. Auden. "Don't you wish I would" is the requisite line from BtVS. Susan's dream is brought to you by my subconscious. I actually had this dream a couple of years ago when I first started watching ER. I wonder what Freud would have to say about it? ^_~ If this was an actual episode instead of fanfic, the scene with the turkey would be shot from inside the oven to look out at Abby, Susan, and Luka--a shoutout to SaL. "Having fun?" is the line that opens the phone conversation between Carter and Abby in TLYS. Last but not least, Carter and Abby may belong to TPTB but Jake Carter owes her creation to me and her namesake to our very own jakeschick--hand over Patrick Fugit nice and slow, and nobody gets hurt. ^_^


	8. The More Things Change

TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (8/12)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK). 

RATING: PG-13

SPOILERS: Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel _Through the Door_

ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to everyone who reviewed TBTS7: Ceri, charlotte, KenzieGal, kenderbender, Lesbiassparrow, jakeschick, Klip, Anna, noa4jc, Carolyn, Lana, Elisa, Kate, CARBYfan, not-so-dumb-blonde, JD, Sandy, charli, and sunshine! As long as you guys keep reading, I'll keep writing and apologizing for the long wait between chapters. :D

SUMMARY: Carter repents at leisure, smokes a lot in the process. Luka whinges to Susan, paints Abby wearing this and only this. Carbyness and Lubyness and Susan, oh my. Thanksgiving Day, Part 2 of 2.

*          *          *

CHAPTER SEVEN

The More Things Change

_Here I am again  
Everything the same  
It don't ever change  
I'm back on the corner again  
In the healing game_

*          *          *

He asked her to come, and she said yes.

A faded house in Minnesota and a motel room in Florida, streetlights and rain on her face, the weight of the dark--she should have known better by now. But she didn't. So she cared. She cared about him even when she knew she shouldn't, she cared about him in spite of her better judgment. 

It was the things he never said that came to matter to her, the things she came to know by the heat of a gaze or the glancing touch of skin. Better not to say these things out loud. Better to let their silences speak for themselves. He was too scared of what he might lose: her friendship, herself. She was too scared of what she might gain. In the end, too scared for anything more than a handful of stolen moments, clumsy and longing. The hands that clasped and the palms that touched when they danced. The heat shimmering off an asphalt road in Oklahoma. The tilt of his mouth as it opened under hers.

They were living on borrowed time, and she was sure one day she would pay.

It was night. The streets were deserted. Snow fell; a wet, slushy snow. The city huddled in the embrace of the cold. Still, Carter insisted on walking.

And, after a moment, Abby followed.

They were living on borrowed time, and she asked for a little longer.

*          *          *

They sat in their usual booth at Doc Magoo's. The window was blue-black with night, and cold with frost. The sun had gone down when Abby wasn't looking, the day passing like a ship in the night.

She watched as Carter rummaged through his pockets before producing a book of matches and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He fumbled through the first few matches before managing to strike a light. He offered her the first cigarette, scissored between his fingers in such a way that if she accepted she would have no choice but to touch him.

She hesitated only slightly before she shook her head.

"I quit."

"Really?" A thin line of smoke rose from the cigarette. "When did this happen?"

"When Maggie died." 

Briefly, Abby remembered all the afternoons she spent in the ambulance bay. She sucked at cold turkey so she compromised: she smoked her cigarettes halfway. Then, she let them drop to the ground with the leaves. She remembered the way the smoke formed a tracery in the autumn sunlight. 

"More or less," she amended, almost as an afterthought.

Carter looked at her curiously, his face pale behind a haze of smoke. "What brought this on?"

Abby watched the ash fall from the unsmoked cigarette. "I thought it was time for a change. Are you going to smoke that thing?"

Carter glanced down, then tapped the end of the cigarette over an ashtray. "Do you mind?"

Abby shook her head. She really didn't.

"Are you sure?" he said, a little bit of relief and not a little of anxiety in his tone.

"Be my guest," she said.

She watched his cheeks hollow out in suction.

"So you don't smoke," he exhaled. "You don't drink. Who are you and what have you done with Abby Lockhart?"

"It's the new and improved me." Abby folded her hands in front of her. Her hands felt cold from the walk. "Version 2.0. Now with less crashing."

"Well," said Carter, raising his eyebrows as the waitress came by with a couple of menus. "I don't know about improved."

"Hey," began Abby, slightly indignant, but he cut her off.

"There wasn't much to improve upon."

Abby stared at him, at the angle of his gaze as his studied the menu with what she assumed was feigned interest. She heard herself address the waitress (coffee, please--black) before she handed back the menu. After a moment, he did the same.

"A slice of banana cream pie," he added. "Two forks, please."

"Don't spoil your appetite," she warned him. "Susan'll kill you."

Shrugging, Carter tapped the ash off his cigarette. "I'm willing to risk it."

"It's been nice knowing you."

"I wish I could say the same--ow, hey, kidding, _kidding_. That was my good leg."

"I missed," she said, blandly.

Carter opened his mouth as if to reply but was cut off by a ringer. Reluctantly, he rested his cigarette against the lip of an ashtray and reached for his cell phone. Abby watched as an odd look crossed his face before he hung up.

"Short call," she commented, and her fingers pushed the ash on the table into a small pyramid. She imagined mirages, sand dunes. Women with veils over their mouths and too much eye makeup over their lids. 

"They hung up," said Carter, still with that look on his face.

Abby exhaled, and the pyramid scattered. So much for Egypt. "Wrong number?"

He looked absorbed. "I don't think so." 

An awkward silence settled between them. Bitterly, Abby remembered why she had taken great pains to avoid him since their conversation on her stoop, under the mindful glare of morning sun. It had reminded her of what she wanted but could not have, what he could have but no longer wanted. It was humiliating. 

So she swapped shifts, worked overtime, attended meetings--did anything and everything to avoid another awkward confrontation. (Even if she couldn't control her dreams.) Until he called her today and until she came to him. In spite of her better judgment. 

She wondered what that said about her. Probably bad things.

"So," said Abby, and her fingers worked on the reconstruction of her pyramids. The sooty ash; the cool, hard tabletop. 

"So," said Carter, his voice smoky and warm. Like scotch. Or maybe it was just the cigarettes. "You've been avoiding me."

"No," Abby lied. Instinctively. 

"No?" Carter looked like he couldn't decide between being angry or faintly amused. He settled for some uneven combination of the two. "I haven't seen you in weeks."

Abby watched him work through the smoke. He was getting to her favorite part of the cigarette. The end. The part that made her fingers burn and her teeth ache for that last mouthful of smoke. 

"I've been busy."

"So it seems." 

He studied her intently. She didn't like it. He was better at reading her than anyone else she had ever known. She didn't know when that had happened, but it worried her. Late at night, mostly.

"You're tearing me away from some quality turkey time," Abby said, to distract him from his vigil.

Carter finished smoking the rest of the cigarette before he replied. "I know."

For a moment, she was still. And when she spoke, she couldn't keep the anger out of her voice. No use in pretending. Not with him. "Why are we here, Carter?"

Carefully, Abby watched him ash his cigarette. When he was done, he looked up at her. 

"I'm sorry," was all he said.

*          *          *

Abby left without making eye contact, promising to return in time for dinner with Carter in tow. Luka watched the door bang shut behind her. Susan watched Luka, his gaze wavering like a mirage, fragile and heated. The expression on his face made her chest tighten with sympathy.

"You look like you just watched your goldfish drown."

"I don't have goldfish."

"I was speaking metaphorically."

"Oh." Luka blinked and the expression disappeared, smoothed over by something more innocuous, less revealing. "I'm not good with metaphors."

"Right." Susan couldn't help herself; she snorted. "This from the guy who recites Hamlet from memory? Give me a break."

Luka rewarded her with a wan smile.

"Don't worry," said Susan, because he still bore a look of worry on his face. "Abby's a big girl. She can take care of herself."

And then he said the last thing she would have expected to hear. At least from him, from someone who guarded his privacy almost as well as Abby.

"Is there something going on between Carter and Abby?"

*          *          *

Carter was reminded of another time like this. They were younger, but not much more so; they were strangers, but not much longer; they had shared a cigarette and an addiction, but not much else. Things were simpler. Something he couldn't say about them any more. That simplicity was lost when he asked for a sponsor and he got a friend. 

Now there were moments that turned on needle points, and long, pregnant pauses, and second chances. (For what, he wondered?) Now there was honesty and the vulnerability that came with the package. Now there were two categories of regret: the things he said (three weeks ago, in front of her apartment, after a little too much alcohol and a badly timed phone call) versus the things he didn't (the last two years, every conceivable moment, when Luka was not in earshot). 

The waitress came by again. Two mugs and a sliver of banana cream pie. Two forks. He left it untouched. So did she.

"I'm sorry," he said again, when she gave no reply.

The expression on her face was unreadable. He knew, instinctively, what she was doing: she was closing herself up, closing herself off from him, like a flower in the dark. He bit his lip. He wanted to pry her open and see her, really see her, like he hadn't in months. But that would be asking too much. That would be asking her to be the one thing she tried to never let herself be. Vulnerable. 

After the way he had been treating her, he didn't think he had the right to ask that of her anymore.

Carter went on. At least, he tried to, but he found it difficult. He hesitated, tried to find the right words; it had been so long that he was out of practice, and now he struggled with that which always came most easily to him: honesty. But it was time to try.

"I haven't treated you very well." His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat. "Have I?"

Something in her gaze--that dense, unreadable gaze--flickered, but she didn't say anything.

He faltered. His speech, his carefully formulated apology, all flew to pieces in his head. He grasped at words. "I never meant to take it out on you." 

Abby reached for her coffee. "Sure you did."

*          *          *

Luka could scarcely believe he had asked the question. But there it was, and Susan was looking at him with that look he couldn't stand to see--half-pity and half-sorrow. It was that look. The one people wore when they wanted to spare you.

He hated that look.

"I don't know," said Susan, finally, and she felt, not for the first time, like taffy being tossed into a sea of hungry kids. Pulled in all sorts of directions, mostly opposing. She didn't think the human body could bend like that but there it was. "You'd have to ask Carter and Abby."

Luka tried hard not to laugh at her answer. He could forget about asking Carter and he couldn't imagine asking Abby. In all their time together they never shared anything more than a bed. 

Meanwhile, Susan offered herself a silent congratulations on her non-answer. She had missed her calling as a politician. Or a diplomat. They were the Bermuda Triangle of love triangles and she was beginning to feel like she would never find her way out. 

Susan glanced up at Luka. She searched his face. It wasn't hard to do, at least when it came to Abby. "You miss her."

Slowly, he nodded.

*          *          *

It was too soon. Or maybe it was too late. Either way, it didn't matter anymore. In the end they couldn't even get by, couldn't do it on their own and couldn't do it for each other. In the end they couldn't even pretend. They weren't enough to save each other, she and Luka.

They settled. For the white of sheets with too much starch in them, moonlight too bright and blinding. As if they could find absolution in all that white noise. As if they could find salvation, when all they got were second bests. 

So that was how Abby knew. She knew Carter meant it when he hurt her. She knew it because she recognized it in herself. In Luka. These were the things people did when they had nothing left. They lit fires, they burned. They watched the edges of old photographs curl, they hammered themselves into new and unrecognizable shapes. No matter if someone got too close, no matter if someone other than themselves got burned. This was trial by fire. This was their acquittal. The fact that she could recognize this in Carter--who had always been kind, who had always been kind to her--scared her more than she thought anything ever could. It wasn't a reassuring feeling, that the people she depended upon to be there for her could fall to pieces. Right in front of her eyes. 

"Sure you did," she said again, mostly to herself.

"I didn't," said Carter. Quietly, stubbornly, as if he refused to believe in a person worse than the person he made himself out to be. "I didn't mean it."

Abby stared at him. It was the same man who had thrust those pills into her hand, so much time ago; his fingers wet and his palms clammy with sweat and toilet water. He had looked at her, his eyes wild and desperate and stubborn. He had looked at her as if he couldn't believe what he had done, as if she was the only one who could save him from it. 

Nobody had ever looked at her like that before. 

And nobody had never looked at her like that again. Until now.

"I would never hurt you," he said.

"Are you sure about that?" she said.

In a way, she knew they were both right. Because that person with the awful, hollow laugh, and the smile so sharp she could cut herself on it--that wasn't him, the Carter she knew. Because he had done those things to her all the same--that was him, too, for he was the man that his actions made him out to be, and he had hurt her.

*          *          *

It struck Susan that she didn't know anything about the man who stood before her, looking as he did, one word coming to her mind. (Defeated.) It was such a change from the person she knew by routine; who was light-hearted, thoughtful, impossibly stubborn, and, like Abby, tried at all costs to avoid being vulnerable. But he was much worse than she. He wore his heart all over his sleeve even as he kept a stiff upper lip. An impossible combination.

"You miss her." Susan's mouth was dry but she plunged ahead. "Does she know?"

Not quite looking at her, Luka shook his head.

"Are you going to tell her?"

The look on his face told her all she needed to know.

*          *          *

"Am I sure about that?" echoed Carter, in the tone of one who was confessing. "No."

Carter surprised himself. He had come prepared to do two things: apologize, and deny everything. He didn't know who he was or what he was doing but that didn't mean she had to know, right? Nobody had to know, not even himself. But here he was, spilling his guts all over the place, and who was going to clean up the mess? 

"You're making it difficult for me to apologize," he said, only half-kidding.

"It shouldn't ever be easy to apologize for who you are."

Abby wasn't kidding at all. She didn't mean to be merciless; she didn't mean a lot of things. The problem was that there was very little she didn't mean when it came to Carter.

Also, she wasn't done. Apparently.

"If you're apologizing to make yourself feel better, don't."

"I'm not--" began Carter.

"Don't apologize to me," said Abby, her voice terse. "I'm not here to make you feel better about yourself. If you wanted that, you should've gotten a dog."

"I know--" Carter tried again.

"No. You don't know anything." Abby cut him off smoothly. The words tumbled out of her mouth without effort. Vaguely, she remembered other times like this: with Carter, with Maggie, in the rain, always in the rain. "But you think you know everything, and that's the problem. You think you know who you are, what you want. You think that gives you permission to act like you're so much better than everyone else. But you're not, and it took a stupid drunk and almost dying for you to realize that you're just as lost as the rest of us. And you know what? That's okay. That's okay, Carter. It's okay to be alive and not know everything. But it's not okay to act like you do."

He stared at her in what Abby could only guess was total fury.

*          *          *

Carter loved Phil. He loved her since he was seventeen years old, as much as a seventeen year old boy could love a girl. He loved her now, even if he couldn't figure out how or how much.

But he realized a long time ago that he was helpless when it came to Abby and Phil hadn't changed that one bit. Abby always kept him in line, kept him accountable, not just to her but to himself. He was at her mercy. Even when moments like these made him sure she had none left for him.

"I'm not apologizing to make myself feel better," said Carter, at last. "I'm apologizing because--I hurt you. And you're the last person I ever want to hurt. I may not know everything but I know that."

Carter rummaged through his pockets. He pulled out a crumpled cigarette and put it to his lips. His eyes narrowed to focus on a lit match before they returned to meet hers. 

"You're wrong about one thing," he said, and he spoke a little faster. "I don't know everything. I know that I don't know everything. I've known it since Atlanta."

When Abby spoke, her voice came to her as if she was far away. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I told you once that you saved my life. I meant it. I guess I did a bad job with what you saved."

*          *          *

It wasn't always like this, thought Luka. There was a time in his life when his world went no further than the wife beside him and the two children before him, and when this world burned he was left with nothing but the ashes of his memories. There was a time in his life when his world was dim with perpetual twilight; the light had gone out a long time ago but not so long that he had forgotten it; its color, its heat, its radiance. 

Then he woke up one morning to find that the world was beautiful, after all. Beautiful like the woman lying next to him. Her short, tousled hair stirred slightly as she exhaled in her sleep.

But not enough time had passed and it was much easier to resign himself to the beauty of dark things. The night, the lights of the city twinkling just over her bare shoulder. It was through these tiny pinpricks that light came again into his world, and eventually he came to live in a world where twilights yielded to mornings. It was like being thrown into the sunlight after a long time shut in the dark.

By then he had found himself but he had lost her. Some time between twilight and morning.

*          *          *

Everything about Carter was direct. From his apology to the way he looked at her. 

Abby wasn't used to that kind of behavior. At first she was too young, and then she was too married. Everybody believed in lies, anyway; they were easier than the truth and a lot more attractive. Now she was too jaded and too smart. Too old and too alone for truth. Especially if it came this easy: sweet like pancake syrup, going down like vodka. She wanted to believe him, and that was the problem.

But maybe she could learn. That was a big maybe, but there had been bigger maybes in her life and they all had names: Maggie, Richard, Luka. Life had taught her differently but she did not always have to learn what she was taught. 

She sucked at following directions, anyway.

"I told you once that you saved my life. I meant it. I guess I did a bad job with what you saved."

I'm sorry, he said. I mean it.

Abby looked up at him. She was unused to this; by now, she usually had the good sense to run away, far away.  But she was here, and she knew why. It scared her. 

"Carter…" she began, before trailing off.

He looked at her expectantly, his expression half-fear and half-hope. All longing. That look. The one he reserved for her, only her.

"You're a work in progress. But you'll do."

You owe me, she said. Big time. 

And Carter smiled.

*          *          *

Snow salted the window, now blue-black with night and winter. Part of Susan wanted to reach out and press her palm against the glass, feel her skin flinch with the immediate shock. Remind herself that she could feel the cold--among other things--because she was human, too. Because she felt, needed, wanted, too. She just happened to find herself surrounded by people who felt a little bit more, needed a little bit more, wanted a little bit more than she did out of this life. All she wanted was a warm bed, a bonus at Christmas. They wanted love and redemption and all the big things in between. 

Overachievers.

She didn't ask to be the referee. Judge, jury, or executioner. But it was too late for that. She was involved. She owed something to everyone even when no one owed her anything. Except maybe their thanks and undying devotion, maybe a drink or two on the side. (Don't forget the umbrella.)

"You're going to tell her," said Susan, reading Luka's expression correctly.

Luka was quiet for a moment before replying. "I think I have to."

They thought too hard, bled too hard, loved too hard, lived too hard. Susan wondered if they would ever learn when to quit. She had learned it in the middle of a desert. They weren't in the middle of a desert but sometimes she thought they might as well have been.

*          *          *

It was his smile that did her in, the smile that promised things like springtime and rain and presents under the tree. A heartbreaking honest smile. The likes of which she hadn't seen in a long, long time.

"I'm sorry for avoiding you," said Abby, before she had time to think better of it. It was the only way she knew how to apologize. 

"Ah," said Carter, tapping the ash from his cigarette. "I knew it."

"What?" Abby gave her shoulders an elegant shrug. "A magician never reveals her secrets."

"Like disappearing on me?" he suggested.

"Like disappearing on you," she confirmed. 

Carter reached for the pie and handed her a fork. "Great, maybe next time you can show me a card trick instead."

"Ask nicely and I might show you a lot more than that," said Abby.

He grinned. The cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips gave him a slightly rakish look. "Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson?"

"Mrs. Robinson?" laughed Abby. "What are you implying?"

"You didn't answer the question."

"If your idea of seduction is a rabbit and a top hat, then I guess so."

The smile on his face widened. "Come on," he said, changing the subject. He pushed the pie in her direction and offered her the fork again. "It's a small piece."

"I'll wait for the pumpkin."

"You have to splurge with me," he insisted, holding out the fork again.

Abby felt an old ache stir in her chest at the familiar words. Her words.

She accepted.

*          *          *

"Well," said Susan, after a moment. "You know what they say."

Luka looked blankly at her as she checked on the turkey. A blast of heat escaped from the oven and painted his face in warmth. "What?"

"If at first you don't succeed…"

He almost smiled. "You fail?" he suggested.

Closing the oven door, Susan scowled. "Okay, you don't like that one. How about this one: second time's the charm?"

"Is the turkey done?" asked Luka, pointedly.

"No, wait, that's the third time," she corrected herself. She glanced at the clock on the wall, watching the second hand sweep along the face. "Almost. But if they don't get here soon, I hope you like your turkey Cajun-style."

Luka looked blank again. "Cajun style?"

"I got it," said Susan, with a triumphant snap of her fingers. "All's fair in love and war."

Luka shook his head. "Nobody said anything about love."

Denial, thought Susan with a rueful shake of the head. Not just a river in Egypt. 

*          *          *

"They want me to head the Foundation."

Surprised, Abby looked up from the plate they just finished cleaning. Her fork scraped against the frosting. She didn't have to ask him who "they"_ were._

"So what did you say?"

"What do you think?"

"You said no."

"I said hell no."

Abby chuckled, and licked the frosting off her fork. "Really?"

"No," said Carter, and he brightened for a moment. "But it would've been funny if I did."

Abby smiled. "I've got a crazy idea."

Carter wiped his mouth carefully. "Don't keep me in suspense."

"Why don't take you take the position?"

Carter looked as if he would gag. He crumpled up the napkin and dropped it in the ashtray. "Yeah," he said. "That's pretty crazy."

"Well, it does run in the family."

"Speaking of families," said Carter. "You know how I feel about mine."

Abby made an impatient tapping sound with her fork. "So?"

"So…you know how I feel about mine."

"So…you need a job." 

"Not that badly," said Carter. "Did you not get the memo? I'm rich!"

He smiled at her in that wry, self-deprecating way of his. She let that one slide.

"Look," Abby said, patiently. "I know you guys aren't exactly the Brady bunch…"

"That's the understatement of the year," said Carter, under his breath.

"…but every family's got problems," she ignored him. "Every family's got skeletons in their closet."

"Yeah, but ours is a walk-in." He sounded almost cheerful as he reached in his pocket and pulled out the last cigarette. "Abby, I'm a Carter."

"So I'm a Capricorn." Abby shrugged. "We all have our crosses to bear."

Carter almost smiled. He shook his head. "I can't."

"Can't?" Abby gave him an appraising sort of look. "Or won't?"

"Is there a difference?" Carter shrugged and lit the bent cigarette. "I wasn't aware there was one."

"There's a big difference."

"Not from where I'm sitting."

Abby raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"I'm sorry." Carter had always been very earnest, and the line between earnestness and smugness was beginning to blur for him. "I really am."

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong or are we going to sit here all night not getting to the point?" said Abby, her tone blunt. He could tell she was getting fed up with him. "Because there's a turkey at Susan's house with my name on it."

The direct approach. Carter set his mouth in a stubborn line and shifted his gaze to the window. The smoke from his cigarette cast its likeness in the glass that held their reflections. They stared back at him, these specters of themselves, all shadow and light, translucent like parchment held up to a lamp.

Abby switched her gaze back to him. "Carter?"

He put his cigarette down. The low drone of voices faded into the background, the cigarette laid quietly forgotten on the lip of an ashtray.

"Carter?" she tried again.

Outside, the wind rattled against the windows. 

Carter watched as the cigarette slowly burned itself out. "My dad has cancer."

*          *          *

She should've known.

No gift came without its price, and she had wondered what it was that had finally brought him around. (Brought him back to her, she almost thought, but that was before she caught herself.) He was good at hiding things by now, much better than he used to be and much better than he had any right to be. How this came to be, she had only a small idea. But she had watched it happen right before her eyes. 

So this was growing old, growing up. She had an idle memory of it, from a long time ago. 

The streets were deserted as they walked the short distance to Susan's apartment. Snow fell; a wet, slushy snow that fell white and turned a muddy gray in the streets. Carter smelled like smoke from his cigarettes, burnt sugar from the coffee he couldn't take black. He was still on crutches; his face drawn, his back forming a graceful arc as he huddled under the folds of a heavy coat. He walked as if he was shouldering a heavy load, and he was. She thought of his dad, and cancer, and the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. Everybody had a breaking point. Especially Carter.

"What happened to your coat?" said Abby.

Briefly, Carter saw the specter of Phil hovering before him, in the cold and with his coat draped over her thin shoulders. It was the first time he had thought of her since he left. "I forgot it. Thanks for bringing one; whose coat is this, anyway?"

Abby kicked at a loose chunk of ice with her shoe. "Luka's."

Carter looked slightly ill at ease. "Really?"

Abby shrugged. "You asked for a coat. And it's not like you and Susan are the same size, or you and me for that matter."

"I thought it felt a little big." Carter took the time to repent, however briefly, of all the ill fates he ever wished upon the other man while he was dating Abby. Even the one involving Romano and fifty feet of duct tape. "And here I thought you were eating your Wheaties."

"He's a good guy, Carter," said Abby, reading his evasiveness correctly.

For a moment, Carter looked guilty. "I never said he wasn't."

You didn't have to, thought Abby. Some things never changed.

"Are you sure you don't want to come in?" she said, as they reached the apartment. "I promised Susan I'd bring you back with me."

"I've got a shift," said Carter. "Besides, I'm not hungry."

Abby clucked her tongue in mock admonishment. "I told you not to eat that pie."

"You ate 'that pie', too," Carter pointed out, and he raised an arm to flag down a cab passing by. Miraculously, it slowed and pulled over to the curb. 

"Let's not split hairs." Abby paused. "Or tell Susan."

"Tell Luka I said thank you," said Carter, shrugging out of the coat and handing it over to her as he opened the door to the cab.

Abby took the coat and held his crutches as he hobbled inside. She handed his crutches back to him when he turned to face her. Then, she shut the door behind him. 

Carter rolled down the window. She saw, rather unhappily, how tired he looked. In the dimness of the cab, the night could not paint his face anything darker than pale. Still, he managed to sound light-hearted. "Happy Thanksgiving, Abby."

"You too," she said, and she hesitated for a moment as he looked at her oddly. "What?"

Carter looked like he wanted to say something more, but instead he just smiled--a sad, sweet smile--and shook his head as the cab began to pull away. Abby watched the taillights until they disappeared from view.

The snow slackened into a cold, freezing rain.

*          *          *

When Carter opened the door to his apartment, it was cold and dark and quiet. No Phil in sight. Some part of him was relieved, but a bigger part of him was disappointed. 

He had lied to Abby when he said he had a shift. It had been a long day and he didn't think he could handle being around people right now, even if those people were Susan and Luka. He was too tired, too confused. 

Abby was the exception to the rule; she always was.

Tiredly, he locked the front door behind him and dropped his keys onto the kitchen counter. But he didn't turn on any lights. He reached up and rubbed at his jaw; he needed a shave. He needed a lot of things. Mostly, answers. He didn't think he'd be getting those any time soon. He decided to settle for the shave. Quick, easy, painless.

All the rage and self-pity that had taken hold of him was gone. He had left it all behind, with Phil and a handful of footprints in the snow. In its stead was a strange need to set things right--as right as he could make them, anyway--starting with the person who mattered most even when she shouldn't. But that was the way things always worked out for him, didn't they? People mattered more to him than he did to people; that's why he stayed and they always, always left. It began with his brother, snaked through a half dozen women, and it ended--at least for now--with his dad, whose prognosis wasn't a death sentence (yet) but left far too much room for error than he would have liked. 

E tu, Brutus? thought Carter, with a sad smile as his dad's face swam into view. The initial burst of anger and shock had passed with his flight from the mansion. He suspected he was too exhausted to put up a fight. Or too broken. Snapped in half.  

He opened the refrigerator door. A flood of yellow light made him blink. He reached for a beer, changed his mind, and grabbed the milk carton instead. He'd go without a glass. That would satisfy the inner rebel in him.

"I can't believe you're drinking straight out of the milk carton."

Carter jumped, and a little of the milk dribbled down his chin and blotted his shirt. "Phil?"

"Got it in one." A pause. "Don't you sound happy to see me." 

Carter blinked, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw her figure cut a lithe shape in the dark. She was curled up on one side of his sofa, wearing pajama pants and a black turtleneck (his, he guessed from the bulkiness of it). No wonder he had missed her.

"You scared me," he said, and he swiped at the milk on his chin.

She could've nodded, but he had no real way of telling. "I brought your coat."

"Thanks." Carter fiddled with the open carton in his hands. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"Long enough," Phil replied. Long enough to listen to the rain. Long enough to listen to things fall apart. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever show up."

Faintly, Carter recalled their harsh words in the snow. The steeliness of his own voice, her shoulders shaking in rage. But now she just sounded sad. "Well, I'm here."

"Where were you?"

"I went to get something to eat," he said. Not entirely a lie. 

"See, that's funny," said Phil. "Because you walked out on dinner."

Carter put down the milk. He stood awkwardly in place. "I know." He paused. "I'm sorry."

Phil laughed. Whatever he was expecting, he wasn't expecting that. "See, that's also funny. You didn't seem very sorry when you left."

"That's because I wasn't," said Carter, truthfully.

His comment was met with silence on her end. Not the stony, angry silence he expected. But a silence nonetheless.

Then--

"I heard about your father. I'm sorry."

Carter felt the color drain from his face. If he had any color left in his face, he was so pale now. "Oh."

"Millicent told me. After you left." He heard her sigh in the darkness. "If I had known…" She trailed off, then she cleared her throat and began again. "If I had known, I wouldn't have blown up at you the way I did."

"I'm sorry," Carter said again. He seemed to be saying that a lot lately. At least he meant it. That should count for something, shouldn't it? "I shouldn't have left like that."

Not "I should've told you," but "I shouldn't have left like that". Phil rose from her place on the sofa. Carter listened to the sound of her footsteps as she approached. 

She stopped a few feet away. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know," said Carter, honestly, and he really didn't. He suspected he was too much in shock to say anything at the time. Or maybe he just didn't want to tell her. He didn't know. His throat constricted all the same, and he found that he couldn't speak. 

Phil stepped close enough so he could see her face. Her eyes were the color of wet cement in the dark, her hair falling across her face the way it did when she was a young girl. Before he knew what he was doing, he had closed the space between them. He shut his eyes as she wrapped her arms around him. He had meant to comfort her, but as he rested his chin atop her head he realized that it was she who comforted him. She still loved him, loved the feel of him after all this time. 

As he held her, Carter realized that there was something breakable in her he had not seen or bothered to see or could not see before. But he saw it now, and he saw how much he had hurt her. So he held her tighter.

*          *          *

Darkness enveloped her tenderly like the hands of an old lover, but candlelight threw her face into sharp relief as she sat by the window. She listened to the fall of the rain, the sweep of his brush against paint and palette. She couldn't forget the way Carter had looked tonight--as if he had nothing, as if he had everything to lose. As if he was falling and she was the only one who could catch him. That was a lot of responsibility for someone who was afraid to fall as well. 

Restless, Abby shifted in her seat.

"Don't move," said Luka, for what was probably the thousandth time that night.

"Sorry," she said, automatically. 

She heard the creaking of his stool as he shifted in his seat and peered at her from the side of the canvas. "Do you need a break?"

"No."

"Are you sure you want to do this tonight?"

"I'm sure," insisted Abby, and she willed herself to sit still.

Luka looked dubious. "Okay."

They worked like this on many nights. Sometimes they talked but mostly it was just silence, the imperfect weight of silence marred by the passing of cars or the sweep of a brush against canvas. She found herself looking forward to these quiet sessions; she found herself looking forward to being in the company of a person who expected nothing more from her than herself and right now. 

"What else have you painted?" said Abby, because she was tired of the silence. He was quieter tonight than he usually was, but she didn't stop to wonder why.

"Fruit," said Luka, thoughtfully. "The river. A bottle of wine. My Sony Playstation."

Abby choked on a laugh. "Your Sony Playstation?"

"Still life," shrugged Luka.

"I see."

"Just kidding." Luka put down his brush and smiled. "Can you move your head a little to the left? No, my left. No--here, let me help."

Abby watched as he rose from his seat and walked over to her. For a moment, she was content to sit in the comfortable embrace of his shadow. She shut her eyes.

His voice came to her out of the darkness. "Tired?"

"No," she lied. Old habits died hard.

He was still standing in front of her. He was standing close enough so that she could almost feel his breath stirring her cheek. She kept her eyes shut.

"Okay. Don't move."

Luka returned to his seat. He sat for a moment with his brush poised in the air. There was something about painting Abby that was a challenge, something about her expression that was unpredictable even though all her expressions were the same. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was all the stuff going on behind the endless series of identical expressions which interested him. 

It always had.

"What?" said Abby, as she watched a slow smile spread over his face. 

She sounded impatient and slightly defensive; she sounded like Abby. It made him smile.

"Nothing."

"You're smiling."

"I wasn't aware it was illegal to smile."

"It's not."

"I'm sorry, you sounded like you were accusing me."

"I didn't mean it."

Absently--"You shouldn't say things you don't mean."

Abby lifted an eyebrow. There was something in his tone that gave her pause and she swallowed involuntarily. 

"A little more to the left," said Luka, interrupting her thoughts.

Obediently, Abby complied.

"No, that's too much."

Abby faked an exasperated sigh and moved back.

"No, that's--never mind." 

Abby watched as he set his brush down and slid off the stool again. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders and repositioned her. She heard him exhale. The flame on the nearest candle sputtered. 

"Is this okay?" she asked, her eyes searching his in the darkness of the room.

Luka mumbled something she didn't quite catch. It didn't seem to matter. He was looking at her oddly, one hand on her shoulder and the other now angled her chin, his thumb brushing gently against the curve of her jaw. 

Abby felt her breath catch. There was a long silence before she could speak, and when she did, it was only a whisper.

"Luka?"

He reached out and touched the edge of her face lightly.

"Don't move."

And she sat very still as he bent and kissed her. 

*          *          *

CREDITS: Opening verse from "The Healing Game" by Van Morrison. "You have to splurge with me" is from "Sand and Water" (*loves*). "We all have our crosses to bear" is the obligatory Buffy line. 

Can't buy me love--but you can read and review. ^_^


	9. Paper Boats

TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (9/12)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK) 

RATING: PG-13

SPOILERS: Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel _Through the Door._

ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.

DISCLAIMER: Fate is so cruel. Carter, Abby, Luka, Susan, and the rest of the ER all belong to TPTB; Phil Weston and Jake Carter, however, belong to meee. 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: 

First things first. Heartfelt thanks go out to everyone who reviewed Chapter 7: noa4jc, jakeschick, Lesbiassparrow, flutiedutiedute, JD, Emma Stuart, Kate, kenderbender, Lana, Jackie, BeckieB, Elisa, ceri, carolyn, not-so-dumb-blonde, Mealz, KenzieGal, ILoveCroatia, Sandy, Rebecca, Ella, Elisa, and sunshine. I hope that's everyone and I'm really sorry if I missed you--email me and we'll talk.

To say that it's been awhile would be the understatement that ate the ER fandom so I'll just say thanks to everyone for their patience. I hope this chapter was worth the spectacularly long wait. More notes at end.

**As a reminder, this fic is AU for the end of Season 8 and for all of Seasons 9 _and 10--no "Lockdown", no Eric on or off his meds, no African safari with Gillian and Debbie. For better or for worse._**

SUMMARY: Luka pursues Abby, Abby finally admits her feelings for Carter, Carter treads water with Phil, Phil asks him to move in anyway, Susan eats a pretzel, and Santa Claus makes an appearance. Welcome to November sweeps.

*          *          *

for jakeschick, who never let writer's block get me down.

*          *          *

CHAPTER EIGHT

Paper Boats

_as the express train passes the local  
it moves by just like a paper boat  
although it weighs a million pounds  
i swear it almost seems to float  
and as we pass by each other  
our heads all full of bother  
we can't look, we can't stop  
we can't think, we can't stop  
because we're stuck in our own paths  
and it's the way it always lasts  
but i need  
something more  
from you_

*          *          *

There was snow in the air, stillness in the room, and if he shut his eyes long enough he thought he might hear a voice in his ear. Her voice.

He had held her. It had seemed a long time to her, but it had seemed an even longer time to him. For she measured the time they had spent together but he measured the time they had spent apart--that was time he could measure, that was time he could count, like small birds perched on a wire. He could not, however, place a measure on the time he had spent with her. He had been too busy trying to live, trying to hold on, to even think about scoring his survival skills.

So even as he had watched her walk away (watched the door fall shut behind her), it was not the ever-increasing distance that he kept for memory but the absence of space between them. And as he stood there on a sidewalk (the middle of a room) wet by streetlight (candlelight), he knew he would wake the next morning and find himself loving her all the same. As if she had never left, as if she had never left him. As if he had never lost her. It was the way he loved, the only way he knew how to hold on to the things he could not keep. It was the way he still loved Danijela, and Jasna, and Marko; the way, he imagined, he might always love her. As a memory, a homesickness.

So Luka held his breath--and for a moment, he thought he heard her presence in the room. But when he opened his eyes she was only a memory.

*          *          *

The curtains were open. He had left them like that in the night. Sleep came, as it had not in weeks, but still he could not bear the darkness of rest, that desolate expanse of death that greeted him when he dreamed. So the curtains stayed open, and when morning came day threw a pale square of light on his face and he opened his eyes. He was aware of the snow falling outside the glass, and of the stillness in the room, and of time--passing, passing him by--aware of everything but the presence of another in the room until she shut the door behind her.

Startled, Carter turned over in bed. "Did you just get in?"

Hand still clinging to the knob, Phil looked exhausted. "Graveyard shift," she said, letting her hand fall.

"I didn't know you still had those at Northwestern," he joked, and he got up and out of bed to help her with her coat.

Phil flopped down onto the bed. "Now you know."

"I thought it was just something we did at County," Carter teased as he hung up her coat. "Like alchemy and leeches."

"Oh, go play with your abacus," Phil mumbled, but she was smiling as she buried her face into a pillow. "You're up early."

"Early bird gets the worm," said Carter, sitting himself on the side of the bed.

"I'd rather get the sleep."

"I think I'm with you on that one," Carter said, and he smiled at her over his shoulder.

Briefly, Phil raised her hand to touch the side of his face. "Are you still having trouble sleeping?"

"Not as much," he replied truthfully, although he often thought of his brother and of Lucy. That was nothing new; they would always be at the back of his head. 

"Are you still getting phone calls from that woman?"

Carter tensed. "What woman?"

"Alicia Holbrooke," said Phil, her eyes full of sympathy. "She called again when you were out yesterday."

At the sound of her name he turned so that he was facing away from Phil, and the window. "I didn't know you knew about those phone calls."

"Well, she's been calling almost every day for the last month. It's kind of hard not to know about those phone calls." Phil got up, throwing her weight and her shadow across his back. "I live here too, you know."

"I know," Carter said, and he closed his eyes as she leaned into him, her breath warm on the side of his neck. 

"How's your dad?" she said.

"He's starting treatment," he replied.

"Where?"

Carter paused. "Northwestern."

"Oh," Phil said, stiffly. "I didn't know."

Carter sighed; it hadn't even crossed his mind to mention it to her in the midst of all the arrangements he had had to make over the holiday weekend. Arrangements he had had to make right away so his dad could start treatment on Monday. He had been so busy…

He was so good at hurting her, when had he become so good at hurting her? 

"I'm sorry," he said. "I meant to tell you."

"It's okay." Phil planted a quick kiss on the side of his ear. "Actually, I've been meaning to talk to you about something."

Carter tilted his head so that he could see her out of the corner of his eye.

"I've been thinking," she said, and he could detect a little seriousness in her voice, "We should move in together."

*          *          *

"This," Abby announced, on her way to the ER, "Is not cool."

"What's not cool?" said Susan, momentarily distracted by the smell of coffee from a street vendor.

"This," said Abby, sounding irritated as she flipped her cell phone closed. "Some jerk keeps calling me and hanging up when I answer the phone."

Amused, Susan's gaze flickered back to Abby. "How do you know it's the same jerk?"

"I don't," said Abby.

"Maybe it's a different jerk every time," said Susan, helpfully. "A jerk _du jour_."

"Your mastery of the French language never ceases to amaze me." Abby stopped and stuffed her phone back in her bag. "Speaking of the French and by that I mean French roast, I need coffee."

Susan sidestepped her way in line. "Maybe he's got the wrong number," she said, returning the conversation to the mystery caller.

Abby glanced back. "Or maybe he's an asshole."

"Or maybe," said Susan, as they approached the head of the line, "I want a pretzel."

Abby looked skeptical. "It's too early for pretzels."

"Pffft," piffled Susan. "It's never too early for pretzels."

"I'll pass," said Abby, as Susan paid for her pretzel and offered to share. "Thanks."

"Your loss," shrugged Susan, and she stepped aside to let Abby place her order. "So how was your holiday weekend?"

"I worked."

"On the biggest shopping day of the year? For shame, Abby."

"Shut up. You worked, too."

"Half shift," Susan said breezily as she bit into her breakfast. "I forgot to ask--how was painting with Luka?"

Abby handed some money over to the vendor. "He kissed me."

Susan choked. _"He kissed you?"_

Cradling a cup of coffee, Abby nodded.

"Gah," said Susan, speechless. "And you didn't tell me?"

"Well, I didn't get a chance to talk to you on Saturday." Shrugging, Abby stuffed the change into her wallet and began walking rapidly towards County. "Weren't we supposed to be at work ten minutes ago?"

"Phones!" Susan said from behind her, trailing behind as they crossed the ambulance bay. "They're called cell phones!"

Abby ignored her. "Carter!" she called, spying his tall figure in front of the ER. 

"He kissed you?" Susan persisted determinedly. "I can't believe he kissed you. Was it good? Did you kiss him back? What about Carter? Hey, I thought you loved Carter."

"Hey," said Carter, waving at them, thankfully out of earshot. At least of Susan. She hoped. "You two are late."

Abby rolled her eyes. "Who died and made you hall monitor?"

"Given the fact I just saved you from the wrath of Weaver, I think the word you're looking for is 'thanks'." Carter paused. "Is that a pretzel?"

"Yeah," said Abby.

"Have it," said Susan, having lost interest in her breakfast.

"Thanks," said Carter, taking a large bite. "Great pretzel."

"I thought so," said Susan.

"What'd you tell Weaver?" asked Abby, sipping her coffee.

"You guys were with Romano."

"Brilliant," she declared. "Thanks." 

"Yeah," Carter said modestly. "I try. Anyway, it'll be a long time before Weaver asks for either of you so enjoy your latte, you bourgeois pig."

Abby nudged him. "Pots and kettles, Rockefeller. I take my coffee black." 

Susan rolled her eyes. "I'm going to go put my stuff down." Then, under her breath, "Not that either of you will notice."

Carter grinned as Abby gave him one of her patented eye rolls. "Ignore her. How was your weekend?"

"Busy," he said. 

Abby watched as the snow began to collect on the tops of his head and shoulders. "Right. Is everything ready for your dad?" 

He nodded. "I think so."

"How's he doing?"

Carter shrugged. "Hard to tell."

Nodding, Abby grew quiet and waited for him to say more. But that was it. "And you?"

"I'm fine."

Unexpectedly, Abby laughed.

"What?" The ghost of a smile was on Carter's face. "What's so funny?"

"You sound like me."

The smile hovered on his face. "Do I?"

"That's not a good thing," Abby reminded him. "Really, how are you?"

Ruefully, Carter laughed. He had heard that question so often over the last couple of months--from Phil, from Gamma, from his father, from his friends, and he had never stopped to really think about the answer. 

"I don't know," he answered truthfully, and he jammed his hands into his pockets. She watched him frown and pull something out. Obviously, something he had forgotten. 

A folded piece of paper.

Abby looked at him questioningly. 

Carter unfolded the paper, gave a brief laugh, and glanced at her sideways. "It's my letter of resignation."

Abby glanced down at the innocuous sheet of paper. "It's unsigned."

"No," said Carter, and he folded it back up to slip inside his pocket. "Not yet."

"So you've decided."

He shook his head, snow shaking off him like ash. 

"Come on," said Abby, taking his arm and steering him towards the ER. "It's freezing out here. Let's go inside and get you some coffee."

Carter smiled, the warmth of her hand tucked around his arm oddly reassuring. "Can I make it a latte?"

Abby looked up at him. When he smiled at her, her heart gave a quick throb, the kind that would have been painful if she were not used to it by now, the kind that made her want to throw caution to the wind. 

*          *          *

"First nutcase of the holiday season," said Susan, handing out charts. "Needs a work-up. Can you get him started for me, Abby?"

Abby flipped through the chart. "First name Santa, last name Claus? You owe me." 

"There's still twenty four shopping days left until Christmas," Susan reminded her. "Plenty of time for material thanks. Oh, and we've got another winner: guy with syphilis in curtain area three. Says he knows you, Gallant."

"Not in that way," said Carter, looking up from his first chart of the day. "I hope."

Abby snickered as she watched a reluctant Gallant take the chart from Susan's hands. "Man, this is the third time this week he's been in to see me."

"Maybe he'll grow on you," Susan said helpfully.

"He's growing something, but it's definitely not on me," said Gallant, as he made his exit.

"Way to do the exit line," Abby remarked, and she nodded as Susan said she'd be along soon.  

Pushing open the door, Abby wasn't surprised to find an older man dressed head to toe like Santa Claus. She supposed the ER did this to her, warped her conceptions of what normal was supposed to be. She didn't mind too much as long as it didn't warp her paycheck.

But the man was visibly shocked to see her, and she watched as he struggled to control the tidal wave of emotions crossing his face.

"I didn't know you worked here," he managed to say.

"I'm Abby," she said, still confused. "I'm a nurse. Are you okay?"

Santa gave her a quick, jerky nod.

"Let's see," Abby said, flipping through her chart. Probably a mental case. "First name Santa, last name Claus, huh?"

"Ho ho ho," Santa said weakly.

"It says here you've got chest pains."

Santa nodded gravely. He seemed to have recovered from his minor…whatever. "I do."

"How old are you, Santa?"

"Not a year over twenty-five."

Abby smiled. Apparently, whatever had bothered the man about her when she walked in wasn't bothering him anymore. If this man wasn't so weird he'd make somebody's nice grandfather. Or maybe it was because he was so weird that he'd make somebody's nice grandfather. Not that he looked old enough to be a grandfather. Maybe. 

But Santa broke off her train of thought. "How old are you, miss?"

Reaching behind her for a chair, Abby pretended to think about the question.

"You don't look a day over twenty," Santa declared.

"Thanks, Santa," said Abby, with a wry smile. "But I need to know your age for your diagnosis."

"Not a year over twenty-five…twenty six years ago," he said promptly, but he was smiling. 

"Thank you. Do you smoke?"

"Like a chimney."

Abby couldn't help herself; she burst out laughing at the idea of a chain-smoking St. Nick.

Santa decided to lob the question back at her. "Do _you smoke?"_

"I'm trying to quit," Abby smiled, as she scribbled some notes on the chart.

"Nice girls don't smoke," Santa pointed out as the door opened and Susan came in.

"I guess that makes me one of the naughty ones," Abby said, and she winked at him before handing the chart over to Susan. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Claus."

*          *          *

Several hours had passed by the time Susan managed to catch up with Abby. She found her friend in the lounge, pouring over what looked like a stack of nursing schedules, looking irritable with a pen tucked behind an ear and a cup of coffee in hand.

"So," said Susan.

Abby looked up blankly. "What?"

"Nursing schedules?"

"Weaver," Abby said glumly. "Sometimes I hate being Nurse Manager."

"Nurse Manager?" said Susan, surprised. "When did this happen?"

Abby made a dismissive gesture with a wave of her hand. "Doesn't matter since there's no pay raise."

"Ouch." 

Susan watched her friend work for a minute before clearing her throat. Loudly. 

Abby tapped her pen against the table. "What?"

"He kissed you," said Susan, crossing her arms. 

Shaking her head, Abby looked back down at her papers. "It didn't mean anything."

"Yeah, but you brought it up."

"Yeah, well maybe I shouldn't have," Abby suddenly snapped.

Susan looked taken aback. "I'm sorry. I thought you wanted to talk about it. I'll leave it alone."

Inwardly, Abby cursed at herself. She didn't mean to snap at Susan, she just didn't know how to talk about what happened with Luka. Didn't even know why she brought it up in the first place. She hated this about herself, hated the fact that she could hold back from the people who loved her most. Sometimes she wondered what the hell anyone ever saw in her when all she ever did was fail--as a friend, as a lover, as a daughter. 

"Sorry," muttered Abby, not daring to meet her friend's eye. "I didn't mean to."

Susan looked unperturbed. "Abby, it's okay. If you want to talk, you know where I am. And if you don't, that's fine too."

"Thanks," said Abby, mostly to her paper. 

"So you must have made a hell of an impression on St. Nick, because he couldn't stop asking about you after you left," said Susan, a smirk on her face as she changed the subject.

"Asking about me?" Abby smiled. "What, in a dirty old man kind of way or a kindly old man kind of way?"

"The latter."

"It must be the winning personality," Abby decided. "So should I make Malik work three night shifts in a row?"

"Why?"

"Or I'll have to do it."

"Do it."

"You're evil."

"Yeah, but I'm also pretty," joked Susan. "Is Carter ditching us for greener pastures?"

"Dunno," Abby replied, the pen between her teeth as she poured over some numbers. "I think he's still deciding. He's got a few options."

"God knows I'd do it if I had the chance," said Susan, sounding bored. "Actually, what the hell am I saying? I love this place. I came back from halfway across the country for this place. I must be crazy."

"No arguments here."

"Yeah. But at least I'm in the right place for people like me."

Abby looked at her curiously. "What, a hospital?"

"No," Susan gave her a crooked grin. "County."

*          *          *

It eventually got around to Weaver that Susan and Abby were not, in fact, in a meeting with Rocket Romano in the morning, and Abby found herself spending the rest of her shift doing an inventory of the drug lockup. She was pretty sure Carter and Susan managed to escape (pleading ignorance and first-time offense, respectively), but she didn't mind her punishment so much. She was in the middle of some very important Luka-avoiding and the inventory was a convenient excuse to hideout. 

"Abby?"

Or not. 

Abby nearly dropped the box of gloves she was holding. She hadn't seen Luka since running out of his apartment on Thanksgiving and a thousand replies ran through her mind, ranging from "can't talk--very important inventory, rubber gloves to be counted and needles to be accounted for" to "how dare you track me down, I am not an animal to be hunted". 

Instead, she decided to settle for the very lame but very safe--"Luka. Hi."

Luka shifted in place. Previously, she thought he just looked awkward but now he looked downright embarrassed. "Hi. I didn't know you were working."

"Well. I am. Working." Privately, Abby marveled at her ability to speak with a minimum of effort from her lips. Someone should give her an award, or just the cash prize. 

"Excuse me," he muttered as he ducked inside, presumably to get what he had come for. 

Obediently, Abby scooted aside to give him room. To give her something to do instead of look stupid she began counting the number of rubber gloves. Again. 

"Kerry?"

"Yeah." 

"Inventory?"

"Yeah."

"What did you do?"

"I was late."

Beside her, she heard him heave a deep sigh. Oh, that Luka. Always so good about being the martyr. 

"We need to talk."

"We've nothing to talk about."

"I kissed you."

"I remember. I left."

"You kissed me back."

Abby drew in a sharp breath. She hated the way he got the better of her, hated the way he made her feel like the sinner to his saint. It would be so easy to do it all over again--and that was the problem, that was why she kissed him back before her survival instincts kicked in and she fled. It would be so easy to fall; she knew exactly where she'd land, and she knew how much it would hurt. The first time may have been an accident, but the second time around would definitely be a mistake _and it would be her mistake. She was smarter than this. She was more than this. She was above this. _

He was kissing her.

It was a chaste kiss, over before it had even begun, but it left her body shuddering all the same. Abby stared down at her shoes, unsure what to say, if anything could be said, when she had no place to run. 

Finally, Abby looked up. But it was not Luka whose face she saw. Instead, she saw Carter, standing at the door to the drug lockup, staring at them both, looking ashen.

Abby felt her throat constrict. _Carter._

"John," Abby blurted, before she could help herself. "This isn't what it looks like--"

"I didn't mean to interrupt," Carter muttered, cutting her off, not looking at her, not looking at Luka, not looking at anything. 

Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone. 

Luka turned to her. "Abby--"

"Luka, I can't," Abby cut him off angrily. "Not now."

Frustrated, Luka followed her out of the drug lockup. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to find Carter."

"Why?" he demanded.

"He might have the wrong idea about us!"

"Is there something going on between you and Carter?"

"What?" said Abby, her face growing hot. "Me and Carter? No!"

Luka persisted. "Then why are you running after him?"

Why am I running after him, why am I running after him as if my life depends on it, does this question even matter? "Keep your voice down," Abby hissed. "That's not the point."

"What is the point?" asked Luka, not bothering to keep his voice down.

The point, the point. What was the point of anything? Way to go post-modern, Abby. Really the time and place for it, too. Sometimes she really hated herself. 

Frustrated, Abby stopped in her tracks. "The point is that I don't think we should be having this conversation right now."

"When?" Luka demanded. "Then when should we be having this conversation?"

"How about never?" Abby spat, as he blocked her way. "That works for me."

"We need to talk," Luka said firmly.

"We don't need to do anything," retorted Abby.

"I kissed you."

"I know! I was there, remember?"

"And you don't think we need to talk?" asked Luka, incredulous.

Frustrated, Abby tried again to get past him. "What could we possibly have to talk about?"

"You kissed me back!" Luka yelled at her.

"Temporary lapse of sanity!" Abby yelled back at him. "Now will you move out of my way?"

Luka looked mutinous. "Are you sure there isn't anything going on between you and Carter?"

_"I'm sure!" _Abby yelled. _"That there is absolutely nothing going on between us! Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now?"_

A dreadful silence followed. Abby dared to look around her and immediately regretted it when she did: doctors, nurses, and patients alike were staring at her and Luka. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Santa Claus lean forward in curiosity, and Susan's head slowly gravitate towards her clipboard.

"Well," Romano broke in, his tone sarcastic, "Someone's grapes are a little sour and I'm pleasantly surprised to find they're not mine."

*          *          *

If there ever was an excuse for that emergency cigarette, thought Abby. She sat in the ambulance bay with a coat wrapped around her frame and a cigarette dangling from her lips, trying to banish the day from her memory. Specifically, Carter--and his open, honest, heartbroken face. 

Open. 

She struck a match.

Honest.

She lit the cigarette.

Heartbroken.

She inhaled.

"Never," she said aloud, holding her rumpled pack of cigarettes in front of her face with a reverence bordering on the maniacal. "I will never, ever leave you again."

"I thought you said you were trying to quit."

Abby looked up at the voice she didn't recognize. 

"I may be a lot of things but I'm not a quitter," she declared when she saw who was speaking to her.

Santa Claus smiled back at her. "That's the spirit. Mind if I join you?"

Abby shrugged, and brushed off the snow from the seat next to her. After the day she just had she didn't think things could possibly get worse. 

"Brrr," said Santa. "Kind of cold. Not sure if reindeer will fly in this weather."

Weirder, yes. But not worse. 

"It was a joke," he assured her, at the look upon her face. 

Abby stared at him. Whatever. She had her cigarette. She was in the zone. She was above it all. She was--

Offering Santa a smoke. 

"Thanks," he said, lighting up. She winced; offering a cigarette to a Santa Claus with chest pains was possibly the fastest ticket she could get to hell. "You're a doctor, shouldn't you be advising against this sort of behavior?"

"I'm a nurse," Abby clarified, and she tapped the ash off her cigarette. "So, no."

"A bright person like you not a doctor?"

"Ah," Abby interrupted him. She waved her cigarette around when she spoke. "I was second in my class when I dropped out of med school and chose to be a nurse."

"Impressive." Santa did sound impressed, and he took a drag off his cigarette. "My mom was a nurse."

"Really?" said Abby, with some interest.

"Damn fine one, too." Abby blinked; was that a twinkle in his eye? "Was rightly disappointed when one of her boys didn't want to go into the medical profession. I'm sure she'd have been proud to know someone like you." 

Abby felt oddly pleased by this revelation.

"Anyway." Santa rose, dusting the ash and snow from his red velour. That was the fastest cigarette she had ever watched anyone smoke; she had to admit it, she was impressed. "Thanks for the cigarette but I've got to get going. Gift-giving and reindeer-rearing to get to, and all."

"Of course," Abby smiled. What a weird guy. "Must be a busy time of year."

But he didn't leave. Instead, she watched as he rummaged through a plastic bag she hadn't noticed he was carrying. When his hand emerged there was a sealed card with her name on it, and a candy cane.

"Merry Christmas," he said, giving her a tender smile, and for a moment she could've sworn he was going to cry. But he blinked, and the moment was gone. "For the record, I think you're one of the nice ones."

"Oh." A flood of sympathy overtook her. "I can't accept this."

"I know there are rules," he said, "But it's just paper and sugar, and I promise there's no money inside."

Reluctantly, Abby smiled. "Okay, but this is between you and me or it's to the unemployment office for me."

He looked at her and smiled before walking away. 

Abby watched him go, his red suit a swipe of bright paint against an otherwise black and white backdrop. When she was fairly certain he was gone, she glanced down at the front of the card and at her name. On the back of the envelope was written, in an annoyingly almost-familiar script,

_Do not open until Christmas._

Smiling, Abby stuck the card in her bag and finished her cigarette.

*          *          *

The cigarette was on the ground and Abby was watching its last embers fade into a too-cold night when the double doors opened and Carter walked out. 

She didn't stop to marvel at her dumb luck, that after having searched all day for him and after having given up he would just appear in front of her with that look on his face, that heartbreakingly open look on his face. She didn't stop to question the forces at work, that strange mix of fortune and happenstance that seemed to govern the absolutely wrong and absolutely right timing of their lives. 

She didn't stop because she didn't have the time--he had seen her and he was walking away from her.

"Carter!" she called, her voice ringing out like a bell in the cold air.

Carter stopped. He turned and looked at her, his face drawn and weary under snow and streetlight. "I've got to go. My dad."

Abby got up and walked over to where he was standing. 

Carter looked at her. "You smell like smoke."

Not a great way to start the conversation. 

She grinned at him weakly. "Would you believe me if I said it was hickory?"

He gave her a look.

"Stop," said Abby. "Spare me the lecture, okay? I know you've got to go, but you have to have ten minutes."

Please, she prayed. Once upon a time you had all the time in the world for me. Please have ten minutes now. 

"Depends." Carter shifted his weight--she had forgotten that he was still on crutches--and she held her breath. "Do you have another cigarette?"

Abby blinked. "Sure."

So they huddled together in the snow like conspirators, Abby rummaging through her pockets until she emerged with her crumpled pack and Carter coming up with a match to light his cigarette.

"Five minutes," said Carter, exhaling a lungful of cigarette and checking his watch. "I can't be late."

Abby exhaled. "Thanks."

"By the way, that was some show you put on earlier in the ER."

She stared at him, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "You saw that?"

"No." Carter looked at her quickly, and then looked away. "I think I'm the only one who didn't see it. But Romano seemed to like it." 

He paused. Abby looked at him; he still wasn't looking at her, and he had this pained expression on his face. 

"So. You and Luka, huh?"

_No_, Abby wanted to scream. _There is absolutely nothing going on between us._

Instead, she said nothing. Why was she saying nothing? 

"I see," Carter said abruptly, interpreting her silence for consent. He glanced up at the headlights of an approaching car. "That's my taxi. So what is it you wanted?"

It was dark now, but she could still see him clearly in the snow that swirled around them both. The headlights of the cab illuminated his appearance to a study in darkness and pallor: the burnt-dark eyes, the eyelashes flecked with bits of ice, the dampened hair mussed appealingly around his face. Not for the first time she understood the look on his face, the look he wore all the time without knowing, the look that said he loved her. It was one of the few things she understood because she didn't understand much else. What he meant to her. How he managed to become so unexpectedly important to her. The way he always wanted things from her that she wasn't sure she knew how to give--things like honesty, and effort, and the meaning that came from them both. And the way that made her want things with him that she had never wanted with anyone else--and the way that scared the hell out of her--

And the way she wanted to try, with him, for him, anyway.

She knew that he loved her. She knew that now; it was written there all over his face for her to see. But there was no way for her to know if he wanted her, and those were two different things.

Carter was staring at her; intently, determinedly. "Abby?"

Tell him, she screamed at herself. Tell him because there are no second chances, tell him because if you don't you'll regret it for the rest of your life.

Tell him.

"John…"

The cab honked its horn.

"Call me," Abby blurted, a burst of fear stabbing at her chest. "If you need to talk later."

"Yeah," Carter said, and as he got in the cab he gave her an odd look. "Thanks. I'll give you a call if it's not too late."

With a sinking feeling, Abby watched as his cab drove away. 

*          *          *

It was late by the time Carter accompanied his father back to the mansion and made his way back to his apartment. Gamma had come to the door, muttering about insolent grandchildren and shooting little death stares in his direction (all of which he ignored because he knew she was just tired and worried about her son), and his dad had left but not without first saying thank you and last asking him if he had given any thought to the Foundation (to which he still had no answer). Carter had bade them both a polite goodnight and then headed over to his apartment. To say he was exhausted would be a gross understatement of the facts.

"Hey," said Phil, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek when he came in through the front door.

"Hey," said Carter, half-heartedly patting the back of her head in return. 

"What took you so long?" she began conversationally.

"Well, the man is dying," Carter said carelessly as he tossed his coat over the sofa. "These things take time."

"John," said Phil, her voice quiet. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I know," he said, and he chastised himself again. "I just had a long day; I'm sorry."

Phil followed him into the kitchen and watched as he poured himself a tall glass of orange juice. "Want to tell me about your day?"

"Sure." Carter loosened his tie and sat back in a chair, the image of Abby and Luka in the drug lockup burned into his mind as it had been all day. "Not much to tell."

Liar, he whispered to himself.

"Well," Phil began, "Then I'll start. I've got a surprise for you."

Carter raised an eyebrow. 

"Nothing big," Phil called from the other room as he heard her open some drawers. "It's just--our article." 

She walked back into the kitchen with a medical journal. "Ta da."

Carter's eyes lit up and he smiled in spite of himself. It was their article all right, the one on doctor exchange programs between intercity hospitals, the one they worked on all autumn. 

"Hey," he said, obviously pleased. "This is great."

"I'm glad you think so," Phil said, her smile matching his. "Does it make your day a little better?"

"It does," said Carter, still smiling over the article. He took a long swig off his orange juice. "I didn't know they'd publish it so quickly."

"They wanted to make it by the end of this year," Phil explained. 

_By the end of this year_. Carter shut his eyes. The same words his father had said to him, except his father was talking about the Foundation and a successor. 

Phil watched as the smile on Carter's face disappeared, replaced by a look that was as tired and as haunted as the one that greeted her at the door.

"You look tired," she said, her voice quiet.

"I am tired," said Carter, and he pushed the journal and his glass of juice away from him. 

And when he shut his eyes, he saw Abby as he had seen her today--her pale face, her body caught in the track of headlights--_John, she had said, she so rarely called him that, what was it she wanted to say, what was it she couldn't say?--and he saw his father, his pale face, his body also caught, but in his own blood and genetics, and the disease that ran through them both, and his voice--__John, he had said, as he had always said--_

It hurt, so much so that he felt dead inside. He hadn't expected it to hurt like this. Any of it.

"I'm tired," Carter repeated. "I'm tired of everyone expecting something from me."

"John," Phil said gently, "Nobody expects anything of you except for you to be happy."

That's not true, Carter thought. Everyone needed something more from him, something more than this, and there were things more important than his happiness at stake. If it was up to him, the world would be a different place; if it was up to him…

"I don't expect anything from you."

Everyone needed something more from him. Especially Phil. 

*          *          *

Abby had taken her time getting home, swearing viciously to herself, kicking herself, but she still managed to make it home exactly ten minutes before Luka came knocking at her door. 

That was twenty minutes ago.

"Come on, Abby," Luka yelled through the door. "You can't be mad at me forever."

"Oh yeah?" Abby yelled back. She was sure she had enough self-loathing and fury at Luka to take her through the next millennium. Or at least through the next couple of hours. "Watch me try."

Seething, she grabbed her pack of cigarettes and parked herself on the couch in her apartment. Her eyes narrowed as she struck a match and proceeded to methodically smoke the rest of the pack. She was, after all, nothing more than the person she thought she was, the person her mother had shaped her to be: stubborn, willful, emotionally stunted and doomed to be alone for the rest of her life.

By the end of her fifth cigarette, though, she could still hear Luka shuffling in the same place he had been for the last half hour or so--on the other side of her door.

She stomped up to the door. "What do you _want, Luka?"_

"I want you to open the door," Luka muttered, feeling incredibly stupid at having a conversation with a block of wood.

"So we can have another conversation about me and Carter? I don't think so."

Annoyed, Luka kicked at the door. "Don't you think you're being a little irrational?"

"Don't _you_ think you're being a little too single white female?"

"What?" Luka yelled.

"What?" Abby yelled.

"What?" Luka yelled back.

"Oh, this is ridiculous," Abby muttered, disgusted at the entire situation, and she flung the door open. "What?" she yelled into his face. "Sorry."

"Thank you," said Luka, looking harried. 

"So what is it you wanted to say?" spat Abby, looking hostile. "Or did you just want to kiss me again and get it over with?"

Luka stared at her. She was crazy, absolutely crazy, she smelled as if she had just smoked half a smokestack, and god, she was irresistibly pretty.

"Well, I don't remember hearing you complaining," he shot back.

Abby turned a bright and unnatural shade of red.

"That's not what I came here to say," Luka muttered, his eyes nailed to the floor. "Look. Can we talk?"

"I'm not falling for that one again, thanks," Abby began icily as her hand made a move for the door. 

"No." Luka caught the door before she could shut it. "Really."

"What?" Abby demanded. "What could we possibly have to talk about?"

Luka stared at her. "I want to take you out." 

Not exactly what he was planning to say.

Abby stared back, astonished. "What?"

"I said," repeated Luka, more slowly, and for lack of anything better to say, "I want to take you out."

"You want to _what_?"

"Out," Luka enunciated again, growing more confident. "Can I take you out?"

Abby found herself at a loss for words. "Out?" she said, stupidly. "Like on a date?"

"Yes," said Luka, patiently, echoing her choice of words, but he was smiling. Like a maniac, thought Abby, and she thought of her mother not for the first time this evening. "Like on a date."

She shook her head. She felt dizzy, muddled, as if she was looking at him from underwater. "Luka, we broke up."

Luka looked injured. "That doesn't mean we still can't go out."

"Well, yes," she said, patiently, "That's exactly what it means."

Then Luka said something in Croatian that Abby didn't understand but whose meaning was perfectly clear. She couldn't help but smile; it sounded exactly how she felt.

"I brought something to show you," he said at last, frustrated at his inability to articulate himself in words. "Can I come in?"

It was the painting. Her painting.

It was covered, but it was the right size and shape, and he was treating it with the right amount of care. Wordless, Abby watched as he grew tired of waiting for her to answer and welcomed himself inside, carrying the painting carefully into her apartment and setting it on her table. 

"I thought you said you weren't done," said Abby, now grown quiet.

"I'm not," said Luka, and he drew back the sheet.

They were silent for a moment, and she felt as she did the first time they had kissed. Not the time in the ambulance bay, or in the bar--chaotic, fleeting moments born of impulse and curiosity--but the time in his motel room. She felt the room close in around her, felt its breath on the back of her neck. She was acutely aware of herself, and of his presence all around her, enclosing her, like the room, like the darkness in it. The past loomed, the present broke, the future fled--all assailable, all unattainable--so they had held on to what they could, and they had held on to each other.

She stared into herself, into someone who was her but who was not her, unfinished but undeniably her, and it was surreal, and it was strange, and it was fantastic--

"Abby."

And after all this time she was amazed to find out that he still loved her. 

"Abby?" he tried again. "Do you like it?"

"I thought you said your father did abstracts," she whispered. She was afraid to speak above a whisper, she was afraid her voice would break.

"He does," Luka said gently. "But I don't. Do you like it?"

"I do," said Abby, her voice quiet.

"It's yours," he said.

A moment passed.

"How do you know it'll be better the second time around?" said Abby, not daring to look at him, not daring to even think about what she was considering. 

"Practice makes perfect?"

Abby snorted. "Please. Spare me the platitudes."

"We'll fight less."

"I hope so."

"Talk more."

"Good idea."

"...do other things."

Abby couldn't help herself; she laughed.

"Like watch movies," Luka finished blandly. 

"I like movies," said Abby, the corners of her mouth quirking.

"Listen," Luka began gently, and when he turned to face her he touched his hand to her face. "I don't know if things will be better the second time around. But I do know that we're different people than we used to be, and I know that I was wrong."

Abby was silent for a moment. She was still staring at that likeness of herself, at herself.

"Wrong about what?" she said at last.

"You are that pretty," said Luka, his hand warm against the side of her face. "You are that special."

Carefully, Luka tucked a stray tendril behind her ear. He liked her this way, disheveled and dreamy; he didn't notice when she flinched, he didn't know it was because in that moment his simple gesture had reminded her of Carter. 

"You know I would never let anyone hurt you."

Abby shut her eyes. For a moment, she stood there in the circle of his half-embrace with her eyes closed.

_You know I would never let anyone hurt you._

She opened them.

"Except for you, right?"

*          *          *

CREDITS: Thanks go to JD for the opening lyrics from Nada Surf. There are a couple of lines in here that aren't originals but I wrote them so long ago I can't remember what they are or where they're from. E-mail me and I'll attribute them.

If you want to know where the hell I was for the last couple of months or why the chapters are taking so long or if you just want to throw things at me: www.livejournal.com/~cmidori. 


	10. Full Circle

TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (10/12)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK)

RATING: PG-13

SPOILERS: Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel _Through the Door._

ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Many, many thanks to all of you for reading/reviewing TBTS9--noa4jc, KenzieGal, Solard, Charlotte15, dreaming, abbyfan, Kate, flicker, ILoveCroatia, JD, jakeschick, Christy, Steelerfan, not-so-dumb-blonde, Tracey, Ella, charli, enigma00, Carolyn, Sandy, Elisa, and Caroline. You are all wonderful people and deserve lots of sugar. But elephantine thanks go to the intrepid charli for doing a fabulous job beta-reading on such a short notice--so much rockage, so little time. ^_- With apologies for the epic wait, and Happy Valentine's Day!

SUMMARY: The one where the shit hits the fan. A love story in two parts.

*      *      *

CHAPTER NINE

Full Circle

_You thought that it could never happen   
to all the people that you became,   
your body lost in legend, the beast so very tame.   
But here, right here,   
between the birthmark and the stain,   
between the ocean and your open vein,   
between the snowman and the rain,   
once again, once again,   
love calls you by your name._

*      *      *

Once upon a time.

They said she was worth the life of a good man. Worth the betrayal of king and country, the slaying of men and the sinking of fleets. Worth a graveyard of blood. Enough to make a river flow the red of sunsets and pearls; enough to make a river the threshold of myth and afterlife.

They said she was a dream. As vast as empire, as long as dynasty, and more immortal with each retelling. They said she launched a thousand ships, an odyssey, a treachery, a story.

They said her name was woman.

_A beautiful woman can turn your world into dust. _Words his father had said to him, at a time when he could still take the measure of himself by a succession of pencil marks against a wall. Stories his father had told him, by lamplight, as his mother stood silhouetted in the doorway. Truths that unfolded before him, in the anonymity of motel rooms and the back alleys of bars. 

Now.

Death, dynasty, and a woman watching the world fall apart at his fingertips. It was history, repeating itself and pressing in upon itself, like the folds of an accordion or the darkness at twilight. It was his story, ageless and timeless.

It was a love story.

*      *      *

**_Part One: Leaving Greensleeves_**

_Alas my love you did me wrong  
To cast me out discourteously  
For I have loved you so long  
Delighting in your very company._

_Now if you intent to show me disdain  
Don't you know it all the more enraptures me  
For even so I still remain  
Your lover in captivity._

*

It was too cold for December, the sky furious with ice and the trees calligraphic. Almost too cold for snow. The lounge was freezing; according to Frank the heating system was on the blink (again), according to Weaver Maintenance was sitting on its ass (again). Meanwhile, someone had hung tinsel to the walls and strung lights along the windows. Someone, Abby suspected, with far too much time on their hands.

Abby gazed out the window. She could see her reflection in it cleanly--her face pale and ghostly and too tired, her body stiff with cold and exhaustion. 

"Did Carter leave already?"

Abby resumed buttoning up her coat. "I don't know."

"I thought you worked the last trauma together."

"We did," Abby said, assuming her defenses. Hat, scarf, gloves.

Impatiently, Susan tapped a pen against the clipboard in her hands. "Well, he forgot to sign off on it."

"His coat's still here," Abby shrugged, her shoulders rising and falling in neat succession. "He's probably still around here somewhere."

Susan grumbled. "Are you off?"

"Half an hour ago."

"Get out of here," Susan scolded her. "And don't be late. Party starts at seven."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Who's coming?"

"The usual suspects." Susan paused. "Carter'll be there. Luka, too. If that's what you're asking."

"That's not very funny."

"Do you see me laughing?"

"You know," Abby said, securing her gloves with a final tug, "It's a good thing we're friends--"

"Or they'd be scrubbing me off the walls for years," Susan finished for her. "Yeah, I know. So what's going on between you and Luka?"

Abby gave her friend a wry look as she reached for her bag. "It's complicated."

Susan looked faintly amused. "Isn't it always?"

*

Simple: GSW to the head. Complicated: GSW to the head of a twelve year old boy. Time of death: twelve years and twenty minutes later. Eleven-and-a-half, actually, but tall for his age, his mother had said, and then she had cried.

Carter yanked at his tie, stained with blood and tears and hanging like a noose around his neck. Damned if he knew how many times he had stood on this rooftop--first for the view, and then for the drop, and then for the view again. He wasn't sure whether he was here tonight for the view or for the drop. To be sure, there wasn't much of a view. It had started to snow in the last ten minutes and already he could barely make out the waistband of the expressway.

The tie lay in his hands, limp and still. Freckled with blood. A dead thing.

He flung it over the side of the building.

"Dry cleaning would've done the trick."

Carter knew who it was but he turned around anyway.

"Dry cleaning's expensive," he said, his words disappearing into the wind.

Abby snorted in reply. "I brought your coat."

"Thanks," Carter said. He shrugged into it with relative ease, now that his cast was off and his crutches were gone. Six weeks of imprisonment had ended with one neat buzz of the saw. Predictably, the blade had made him shudder. "How'd you find me?"

"Metal detector. You're wearing enough gold to prop up the currency of a struggling Third World economy."

"It's just a watch," Carter protesting, shaking out his wrist. "An early Christmas gift." From Phil, of course.

"Some say it with flowers, others say it with fourteen carat gold."

"Eighteen."

"Show off. What are you, retiring?"

Carter shrugged. "Maybe."

"Nothing's opened up in the ER?"

"Nothing's going to open up."

"Talk to Weaver," Abby suggested. "I'm sure she'd make an exception for you."

Carter looked away.

"You've already talked to Weaver," Abby said, comprehension dawning on her face. The cold began to creep into her bones. "You're not going to stay, are you?"

"Was that a question?"

"Not really." Numbly, Abby stuffed her hands in her pockets. "When did you make up your mind?"

"I haven't." 

"So you're just going to let Weaver make up your mind for you. Wait for the pink slip, for permission to walk away."

Carter glanced at her. She was looking away from him, her eyes were fixed on the lights in the distance and her shoulders covered with a light dusting of snow. "You make it all sound so…"

"Irresponsible?" Abby supplied.

"I was going to say _clandestine _but _irresponsible _works, too."

"I was going for irresponsible."

"Right. Irresponsible it is, then."

"I'm glad you see things my way."

"Your way or the highway, huh?"

"Now you've got me confused with Weaver." Abby gave him the coldest stare she could muster. "That's not cool."

Carter smiled, and buried himself deeper into his coat. The smile vanished from his face.

"Phil asked me to move in with her," he said, apropos of nothing.

Abby said nothing. Briefly, she tried to imagine dialing Carter's number and hearing Phil's voice on the other end of the line. She felt vaguely like throwing up. Preferably on Phil.

"That's nice," Abby said, searching her pockets. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," Carter said, sounding sheepish. "Like the last time she asked me, and the time before that."

Abby yanked a cigarette from the pack she didn't know she was clutching. "Why don't you?"

Carter shook his head. "I don't know."

A small flame erupted, the tip of her cigarette glowed. She smoked her cigarette, her face emptied of all expression as she took care not to blow smoke in his direction.

*

Susan's party was in full swing by the time Luka arrived at her apartment. A fire crackled in the hearth and Christmas carols blared from a set of speakers. In the corner stood a large, decorated tree, its lights twinkling and its boughs drooping over a pile of brightly-wrapped gifts.

Susan hollered at him over the din of the crowd. "Just put your gift with the others!"

Next to her, Jerry burst into a round of impromptu caroling.

Luka took a deep breath: pine and gingerbread. He wove his way through the crowd, Jerry's C above high C nearly splitting his head in half. He stopped to shake a couple of hands from X-Ray. It never hurt to get an in with those guys, especially since he had a strong suspicion that they played favorites with the female Attendings in the ER. When he had suggested his theory to Susan she had merely flipped her hair and laughed.

"Merry Christmas," he said, finally making his way across the room. 

"I thought you were working tonight," Abby replied.

"I traded," Luka said. He dropped a gift by the tree and kept a second one in his hands. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to know that Yosh and green spandex are a deadly combination. No, don't look."

Luka followed her eyes. He winced.

"Can't say I didn't warn you," Abby said calmly, sipping at her eggnog. She still felt cold from her conversation with Carter on the rooftop; she had stayed longer than she had intended and heard more than she had wanted to know. She felt a sudden stab of irritation. "God, I really hate the holidays."

Carter would've made some mildly appeasing remark in an effort to make her laugh. But Luka looked as if he didn't know how to respond to her sudden burst of animosity.

"How was your shift?" he said finally, shifting the conversation to more neutral ground.

Abby shrugged. "Okay."

"I've got to work after this."

She nodded; neither of them said anything. Something about them made silence so very easy.

"Well…" Luka broke her train of thought. "Merry Christmas."

Surprised, Abby looked down to find a small box in her free hand. She looked up, wonderingly. And not for the first time since he unveiled that painting of her, she wondered what he saw when he looked at her. She was pretty sure it was nothing like what she saw when she looked in the mirror. She couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Luka looked--almost--apologetic, and a little bit unsure. "I know we're getting each other gifts for the Secretive Santa--"

"Secret."

"Secret Santa, but…"

He shrugged. The moment was quick, and ruthless, but it was there and she saw what she needed to see. And that was all that mattered.

Abby looked down at the gift in her hand. She felt totally, completely…

Empty. Strangely empty.

"Luka, I…"

…can't accept this?

…don't know what to say?

…love you?

"Can't," Abby said, her heart contracting. "I can't do this."

"You can't?" Luka echoed, looking bewildered. "You can't do what?"

But she never knew what she was going to say next. Because at that moment the door to Susan's apartment opened, and Carter walked through it.

And so did Phil.

*

Susan eyed the newest arrivals. Carter and Phil were mingling, every bit the veteran socialites: Carter, handsome in a dark suit and bright tie, and Phil immaculate and composed in cashmere and heels. Phil was laughing at something Yosh was saying (or wearing, Susan couldn't honestly say) and Carter seemed taken by Susan' gingerbread. So far, so good.

Meanwhile, Luka and Abby stood in the corner. They looked involved in what Susan suspected passed for conversation between them: Luka looked hurt, confused; Abby clutched a small box in her hand and stared at the ground with the unmistakable expression of a trapped animal.

Okay, maybe not so good.

With a martyred sigh, Susan excused herself from an attractive pediatrician whose opening line left something to be desired ("Call me Bob"). She smiled in greeting as she made her way to the couple.

"Merry Christmas!" Susan beamed. "Have you tried the gingerbread? It's homemade."

"No," Luka said, with a preoccupied air as Abby mumbled, "M'Christmas."

Susan touched her elbow. "Abby, I need you for, ah, that thing." 

Abby looked blankly at her. "What thing?"

"You know," Susan cleared her throat. "That, ah, thing we talked about earlier?"

"I don't remember any 'thing'," Abby said, sounding irritable.

"You don't remember?" Susan said, through gritted teeth. "That. Really. Important. Thing. In. My. Bedroom."

"I don't--ooh, yeah, _that _thing." 

Smiling through her teeth, Susan excused them both and guided Abby towards the bedroom. She glanced back and couldn't help but feel sorry for Luka. He looked irredeemably lost.

"You're welcome," Susan said, as soon as she had shut the bedroom door behind them.

"Thank you." Relieved, Abby plunked down on Susan's bed and placed the gift more gingerly beside her, as if it were a bomb.

"Is that for you?"

"Yeah."

"Is he your Secret Santa?"

"No."

"Hmm. Looks jewelry-sized."

"Don't _say _things like that."

"Carter's here."

Or that, Abby thought to herself.

"He brought his girlfriend," Susan continued, merciless.

Abby shut her eyes. She remembered the entrance they had made: he, pale but handsome in a dark suit and she, sweet-faced and flawless. All shiny. The ideal couple.

"Right," Susan said evenly, "Lots of baggage there."

Silently, Abby shrugged. She didn't know it, but she wore on her face a look that Susan had seen many times before: Phil looking at Carter, Carter looking at Abby…

Mark looking at her.

"You better make up your mind," Susan said bluntly. "Or someone's going to get hurt. Again."

Mutinous, Abby folded her arms across her chest. "What do you want me to say?"

"Me?" Susan was incredulous. "It doesn't matter what I want. This, all of this, has nothing to do with me. But for some reason I'm always in the middle of things and frankly I'm a little tired of helping along everyone else's love life at the expense of my own."

"Join the club."

"Yes, well, it's not my club and not my clubhouse and, hey, that metaphor stopped making sense awhile ago."

Abby looked at her expressionlessly. "Does it help you to know that I hate her?"

"Who?" A narrow thrust of sympathy pierced Susan's heart. "Oh. Her."

"Yeah," Abby said, mostly to herself.

"I really liked her coat," Susan remarked, and she took a seat on the bed next to Abby.

Abby scowled. "I bet she skinned the mink herself."

"That was low."

"Yeah. Count me out for sainthood."

"I think that happened awhile ago." Susan glanced at her sideways. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Me?" Abby had a blank sort of look on her face. "Call the SPCA, I guess."

"I wasn't talking about the coat," Susan said gently.

"Oh." Abby got up from the bed. "I don't know."

"I've never known you to be the jealous type."

"I'm not," Abby said, going to stand by the window. She raised her hand to the glass. It was ice cold against her fingertips. "Not even with Richard."

"Maybe you didn't love him," Susan said, her voice quiet.

Abby was very still. "Maybe."

*

Carter was on his second glass of mulled wine when he spied Susan slipping out of her bedroom to rejoin the party. Excusing himself, he left Phil in the middle of what he suspected was a fast-growing club of admirers. Frank, Jerry, and Pratt were all hovering by her elbow and hanging onto her every word, laughing uproariously every time she made a joke and even when she didn't.

Shaking his head, he made his way over to Susan. He caught her by the door. "Merry Christmas," he said, kissing her on the cheek.

"You are _not_ flirting with me again," Susan retorted.

Carter guided her attention upwards. Mistletoe. "Are we hoping to get lucky tonight?"

"Are we hoping to leave with all our limbs intact?"

"Come on," Carter said mildly. "I want to introduce you."

Obediently, Susan let him take her arm. He guided her towards Phil, detaching them from the crowd. "Phil, this is Susan Lewis, my coworker and an Attending in the ER. Susan, this is Phyllis Weston."

"Nice to meet you," Susan smiled. The last time she met Phil one of them was unconscious, and the time before that was a decade prior. She hoped the third time would be the charm. "Glad you could make it."

"Thank you for inviting me," Phil said. "It's nice to finally put a face to the name, again. John's said so much about you." 

"All lies, I'm sure," Susan said, at the same time Carter said, "Again?"

"We've met," Susan explained. "Ten years ago. You were both med students."

Except only one of us chose to stay, Carter thought.

"Seems like only yesterday," Phil said, with a pretty laugh. "Ten years already."

"Nah," Carter shook his head, memory fleeing his fingertips. "Dr. Weston's discovered the fountain of eternal youth."

Susan coughed to smother a spasm of laughter as the other woman rolled her eyes. So there was something left of the dorky med student after all.

"What?" Carter said.

"Nothing," Phil shook her head. "Is that Dr. Kovac?"

"You two know each other?"

Hastily, Susan coughed again. Carter did not look entirely pleased with this revelation.

"Sick," Susan explained weakly.

"Médecins Sans Frontières," Phil said with mild amusement. "We met at an orientation meeting."

"Is there anyone you don't know?" Carter asked, only half-jokingly.

Phil looked impassive. "I don't believe I've met Abby."

"No," Carter said equably. "I don't think so."

Susan raised an eyebrow. But before she could say anything there was a touch at her elbow.

"Susan," Luka said. "Have you seen Abby?"

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flicker of interest betray Carter's face. If she wasn't mistaken she was sure Phil had caught it, too.

"Uh," Susan stalled. "No?"

Luka looked unconvinced.

"No," Susan repeated, more forcefully. "No, I haven't. Have _you _seen Abby?"

"Luka," Carter broke in, "This is Dr. Phyllis Weston."

"Yes," Luka said, his attention now entirely focused on the woman at Carter's side. "I think we've met."

Susan glanced over at Carter as his girlfriend and Luka exchanged pleasantries and began to chat animatedly about his time with in Croatia with Médecins Sans Frontières. Carter glanced back at Susan and shrugged. He looked as if he was about to say something but his attention was diverted elsewhere as he pulled out his cell phone. 

A funny look crossed his face. "Excuse me, I've got to take this."

Suddenly, Susan had a flash of genius. Or madness. It was hard to tell sometimes. "Why don't you take it in my room? First door on the right."

Preoccupied, Carter nodded and touched Phil's elbow before making his leave. Phil and Luka seemed to be getting along fine so Susan excused herself as well, hoping she had made the right decision but becoming increasingly worried that she had just made a potentially fatal one.

*

Blame it on the divorce, Jack Carter thought humorlessly as he downed the rest of his scotch. It was the divorce, combined with recent disquiet within the Foundation, which had led him to postpone his yearly physical with his physician. It was the divorce, combined with an unexpected solitude, which had led him to ignore the first signs of his own body breaking, failing him. The collars around his neck loosening with the weight loss, the waists of his pants tightening with the swelling. 

Already, he was learning the worth of his money, in tests and needles and reams of white paper. Already, he knew he was learning his lesson too late. 

"Sir?"

Jack opened his eyes, unaware that he had shut them. "Yes?"

The housekeeper hovered in the doorway to the study. "Mrs. Carter would like to know if you wish to eat."

"No," Jack drummed his fingers against the armrest of his chair. "Tell her I'm on the phone. Business."

"Of course, sir."

"Oh, and Emily?"

"Yes, sir?"

"It's just Eleanor, now."

Emily nodded, and he poured himself another glass as he waited for his son to call him back.

*

"Sorry about that, Dad," Carter said, closing the door behind him. "I couldn't hear you in the other room."

"How's the party?" Jack asked.

"Festive," Carter said. He could still smell gingerbread and pine on him.

"Good to hear. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," Carter said distractedly. He decided to get to the point. "Did your lab results come back?"

Jack swirled the liquor in his glass. "Yes. Yes, they did."

Wavering, Carter slid to the ground. He sat with his back against the door. "What do they say?"

"Have you made a decision about the Foundation?"

"No."

"No, you haven't made a decision or no, you're not going to head it?"

"The first," Carter faltered.

"John, you do know that the board will need time to select a new head before the end of the year if you choose not to do it."

"I know," Carter said weakly. "What do the test results say?"

On the other end of the line, Jack Carter shut his eyes. He imagined his son's face, tense and hopeful, and desperate. He imagined his son's eyes, and the disappearing of the faint dreaming distance behind them.

"Dad?" Carter whispered.

"They've ruled out surgery as a viable treatment."

Back against the door, Carter felt the world fall apart at his fingertips.

*

Carter didn't know how long he stayed like that. Gradually, he became aware of the shuffling of feet in the hallway, the muted din of the party in the other room. Mostly he became aware of himself: the jagged edges of his breathing, blood pumping in his ears. The things that should have reassured him, reminded him that he was alive. Instead, they seemed like they were taunting him.

"Carter?"

He jerked his head up. His eyes were dark, and unfocused. "Abby? What are you doing here?"

Abby was standing where Susan had left her: by the window, one hand lingering on the pane. She looked unreasonably pretty, her hair falling loosely around her face and all that dark hair and dark eyes against the whiteness of a frosted pane. All that familiar territory, and all that undiscovered country.

"Luka's looking for you," he said.

Abby didn't move. "I know. Are you okay?"

Carter picked himself up off the floor. His face was pale but expressionless. He wouldn't have been able to pull that off a year ago; the fact that he could a year later was a testament to how much she had taught him.

He wondered if she was ever sorry for how she had changed him.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm okay."

Abby looked at him carefully. "Are you sure?" 

"I'm sure. We should get back to the party."

But he didn't move. Neither did she.

"Was that your father?"

Something inside him began to hurt. 

"Carter?" Abby said softly.

"It's not operable," Carter said, with a fierce and terrible sadness, and he felt the hotness at the back of his eyes as she crossed the room to go to him. "It's not operable."

Grief broke over him like a wave, and he clung to her. As if she could save him, when all she could do was hold on to him and hope that they would not both drown in the tumult of his sorrow. 

*

As Carter held her, held on to her, Abby was seized by a sudden memory of the last summer she had ever spent at the beach. Once a year her neighbors used to rescue her and Eric and whisk them away to the seaside. Eric had always taken to the water as fast as his spindly arms and legs could get him there; Abby had followed more slowly. She preferred to stop right where the ocean met the shore, preferred to listen to the sound of the water lapping against the sand and preferred to feel the spray of salt and not water on he skin as her brother splashed in the sparkling, sea-green waves.

That last summer, the last summer before things got really bad, Eric nearly drowned. 

Summer slipped into autumn, but the feeling stayed the same: the sureness that she was watching the sea swallow up the person she loved best in the world, the certainty that she was about to lose someone she loved very much, the knowledge that she was too late. It strangled her when she thought Eric was drowning, and it strangled her every time Maggie had one of her manic attacks. It strangled her now. That Carter would drop everything to be with her, that it said something about the nature of his feelings for her, and that now she would drop everything to be with him--

Oh, Abby thought. My God.

And he was holding her, his arms clenched around her and his fingers fitting themselves between the grooves of her ribs. There was a fierce desperation to the way he touched her--as if he was cracking, through and through like glass shattering; as if he was drowning, and she the only thing standing between him and a great darkness. The pulse at his neck was evidence of his life in her hands, and the trembling in her bones evidence of her life in his. 

She wanted to tell him. That memory was a cheat, and sanity overrated, and there were some things in life you never got over, things that stayed with you not because you were too weak to fight them off but because you were too strong to let them go. So you endured, and made them a part of yourself, trading the possibility of a perfect self for a self that was messy and flawed--and complete, in a way that perfection could never, ever be. 

But she never got to say any of it, because the door opened from behind them. And because Carter was standing with his back to it, and because he was holding her so tightly that her face was pressed against his heart, neither of them ever saw the look that crossed Phyllis Weston's face before the door closed again.

*

Their fingers were knitted together, pale and ringless, as they lay awake and stared at the ceiling together. Phil gazed at the blank surface, at the shadows that flickered like candlelight across it. She was remembering their past with a kind of abstract fondness, as if it was a story that wanted telling but she could not find the voice for it. 

Maybe that was the problem, maybe they were still grappling with a lifetime of back story. Maybe they were still trying to figure out where their present selves fitted within the context of too much history.

But Phil knew that wasn't it at all. An entire lifetime of possibilities had been swept away, not by time but by the choices they had made. For the first time she realized that he wasn't fully to blame. She had made these choices, too.

"John?"

She heard him rustle in bed beside her. "Mmm?" 

"You never introduced me to Abby," Phil said. In her mind she saw a woman being held by a man in a way that Phil herself could never remember being held. Not ten years ago, not now. Not ever.

Carter paused, and stared up at the shadows that floated across the ceiling like ships. "Yeah, I guess not."

"How long have you known each other?"

Mentally, Carter calculated the years in his head. "Three or four years, I think."

"She's pretty."

Carter glanced at her sideways. "Yeah," he said cautiously. "I guess so."

Phil rolled over in bed so that she was facing him. "Do you still have it?"

"Do I still have what?"

 "The ring."

He rolled over so that he was facing her as well. Her grey eyes were fixed on him, cool and steady. 

"Yeah," he said. "I do."

"Why did you keep it?"

"Glutton for punishment," he said, shrugging lightly, though sometimes he wondered the same thing himself. "Besides, it was an expensive ring. I broke the Carter family trust fund for that one."

"Money's no object," said Phil, her slender fingers toying at the pendant at her neck. He had given this to her as well.

"Spoken like a true Weston," Carter quipped.

"John…"

"Yeah?"

"I want you to be with me because you want to be with me, not because of a promise."

"What?" Carter turned to her. Snow and moonlight bleached her features white, hair platinum and eyes the color of water. Her gaze shimmered, mother-of-pearl. "Where is this coming from?"

Phil blinked rapidly, an unfamiliar swelling behind her eyes. 

"I love you," she said. "But I don't think that's the point any more."

*      *      *

**_Part Two: Swan Songs_**

_"Tell him yes," she said. "Even if you are dying of fear, even if you are sorry later, because whatever you do, you will be sorry all the rest of your life if you say no."_

*

A cold freezing rain hammered the city from sunrise to sundown. Abby felt as if she had spent all day trying to dry off in the ER for no good reason; at the end of the day she was forced to wade through the city again. The El was wet, and dank, the windows steamed white and the floor littered with sopping newspapers; the walk to her apartment short but punctuated with the sound of rain splattering against the sidewalk and sewer grates.

She spent all evening trying to warm up, curled up on her sofa with a thick blanket and a thicker book, her cigarettes sitting just out of reach. She had blown through three packs since the party, and had come to work reeking of so much cigarette smoke that Susan had wrinkled her nose and told her plainly that she smelled like cancer. Carter, to her surprise, said nothing, merely asked for a cigarette when they were on break together. Luka said nothing as well, but that was because she avoided him.

Putting down her book, Abby reached for the stack of unopened cards on her coffee table. She began leafing through the stack and opening some here and there. Halfway through them she lost interest. The only one that made her smile was the one from "Santa Claus"; the candy cane he had attached was laced with nicotine. She didn't know they made candy canes like that.

Putting down the cards, Abby leaned over and picked up her gift from her Secret Santa. Socks, with a reindeer print. The reindeer noses lit up when you walked. 

She was pretty sure they were from Yosh.

There was a knock at the door; Abby wasn't expecting anyone but she had a pretty good idea who it was. Very few people knocked on her door, and both Luka and Susan were working that night.

Shrugging, Abby pulled on the socks and shuffled to the door.

"Hey Carter," she said, pulling the door open.

The person on the other side of the door blinked. "Excuse me?"

Oh, shit.

"Dr. Weston," Abby said.

"I'm sorry for the hour," Phil apologized, gracious and repentant as she stood at Abby's door. The rain had let up but not abated; Phil was wearing a raincoat and matching umbrella. Beads of water fringed her eyelashes and the edges of her hair.

"It's not late," Abby said. She was at a complete loss as to what to do. Invite her in? Throw her out? Feign a seizure?

Phil glanced down. "I like your socks."

Feign a seizure.

"Oh," Abby said, feeling all of six years old. "Yeah. They were a gift."

"I remember," Phil said, her voice pleasant. "The Secret Santa, right?"

"Right." Abby did not fail to notice the smart pantsuit and crisp collared shirt, the pendant that shone in the hollow of Phil's neck. She felt increasingly foolish in her sweats and reindeer socks.

"Do you have a moment?"

No, Abby thought.

"Sure," she said, swinging the door wide open.

"That won't be necessary; I won't take more than five minutes."

Abby gave her a short, sharp nod, her socks lighting up like a Christmas tree.

"I don't think we've properly met," Phil apologized, all at once embarrassed and unruffled. "Other than that once. I'm Phyllis Weston, Dr. Carter's--"

"Girlfriend," Abby finished for her.

The hallway was dark but Abby could have sworn that she flushed slightly under her makeup.

"Colleague, I was about to say."

Abby raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"Abigail Lockhart, right?"

"Abby."

"Abby," Phil repeated. "You're a nurse in the ER."

She pressed her lips together and nodded.

"You work with John."

Inwardly, Abby sighed. "Yep, I work with Carter. We're colleagues."

Either Phil didn't pick up on her sarcasm or didn't care to acknowledge it. "You know him well."

"We're friends," Abby said, unable to keep her voice anything less than curt.

"Friends," Phil echoed. "Then--I thought you might tell me--tell me about John's father."

Abby's mouth was dry. "He didn't tell you?"

"No," Phil admitted, her eyes steady. There was a hard edge to her beauty, confined as it was to the dark hollow of the hallway.

"I'm not sure I'm in a place to say."

Phil gazed at her steadily, and Abby knew that behind that gaze was a woman who had just choked down a lifetime of pride. "I thought you might say that."

I don't think you came here for this, Abby thought. 

"Anyway." Phil gave her a smile: cool, unruffled. Counterfeit. "Sorry to be a bother."

A strange, inexplicable rush of sympathy tugged at Abby. "I'm sorry I can't help you."

"It was nice meeting you again, Abby," Phil said, shaking out her umbrella.

Abby bit her lip. "Are you sure I can't get you some coffee?" she said finally.

"No, thank you."

Phil turned to leave. But she turned around again, and it was the only time Abby would ever see Phyllis Weston looking anything other than self-assured.

"He said he loved me too."

*

The day after was full of ice: ice slicking sidewalks, frosting the trees in a jagged-cut lace, and hanging from roofs in daggers. Still, there were signs of Christmas everywhere. Row after row of houses shone with lights and store fronts boasted wreaths and garlands. The streets were busy with shoppers hurrying from department store to department store, the bags in their hands splashed with reds and greens and trimmed with gold and silver.

_Only ten days 'til Christmas!_ a flier reminded them.

There was ice on the railings along the river. Nevertheless, Carter rested his elbows atop the iron bar, his hands clasped in prayer and a thoughtful expression on his face. Abby stood next to him with her gloved hands jammed in her pockets and said nothing. The wind rubbed against her cheeks.

Abby finally spoke up. "I'm freezing my ass off. What are we doing here?"

Concentration finally broken, Carter looked over at her and chuckled. "Patience, young grasshopper. All will become apparent in due time."

Abby grumbled, but said nothing further. 

Carter resumed his gaze. The city before them was pale, still, a solemn metropolis of concrete and ice that grew darker as the light in the west began to fade. Below them the water was clear and gray, and would swallow what he had in his hands to offer. If he chose to drop it.

"My dad started chemotherapy."

"Intra-arterial?"

"Yeah. He got a pump and everything. Doesn't even need batteries."

"So much for the energizer bunny."

Carter smiled. Birds winged overhead, their cries sharp in the twilit air.

"Your girlfriend stopped by last night."

Carter looked interested. "Phil? Really?"

Abby fingered the cigarettes inside her pocket. "I didn't know she knew where I lived."

"I didn't know either," Carter said honestly. "What did she want?"

What did she want?

You, Abby thought. She wanted you.

"I don't know," she said lamely. "I hardly know her, Carter."

"Huh." Pensive, he scratched the back of his head. "What did she ask you?"

"She asked me about your dad."

Upon hearing this, Carter didn't look too surprised.

"Are you ever going to talk to her?"

"We talk," Carter said, his tone defensive. "I don't have to tell her everything." 

"Now that sounds like a winning attitude," Abby remarked, her tone dry.

Carter rolled his eyes. "Pot, meet kettle. This from the person who avoids Luka like the second coming of the bubonic plague? I thought you two were dating."

"Well," Abby said, not looking at him, "We're not."

Surprised, Carter looked at her, a faint distance lighting his eyes. "You're not?"

"We're not," Abby repeated, for emphasis. It was the first time she had said it to herself out loud. She felt…relieved.

"Well," Carter said, suddenly cheerful. "Don't you think you ought to tell him that?"

"Sure. As soon as you talk to Phil, Luka and I will sit down for one of our infamous heart-to-hearts."

"See, this is why I'm not going to be taking attitude lessons from you any time soon."

"Hey," Abby said, defensively, "They let me out on good behavior."

"He loves you," Carter said, abruptly. 

"And she loves you," Abby countered ruthlessly.

She felt the warm pressure of his arm against hers, watched the latticed trees cast shadows across a face she hadn't seen for a long time. One that was warm, and open, and--unguarded.

Carter looked at his hands. "I know," he said slowly. Impulsively, he looked up at her. "Thank you. For being there. For being you."

Dizzy, he watched as her eyes darkened, and she gave him a quick, nervous smile.

"Don't sweat it, Carter."

"Abby--"

She cut him off hurriedly. "It doesn't mean anything."

Carter pinned her down with his eyes. "It means everything."

Abby said nothing, just stared at him with eyes that were too bright.

"Abby," he said, and he reached for her.

Something fell from his hand, and with a clink bounced off the iron railing and onto the ice at their feet. Abby beat him to it, her fingers closing around the small object. 

She knew what it was without ever opening her hand. And she heard the beat of her blood in her ears, and she became flooded with the sick giddiness of too much loss. Her father, her childhood, her marriage, and then her mother, and now…

Her fingers curled open, her hand unfolding like a wilted flower. It was a ring.

Abby looked up at him. "You proposed," she said faintly.

Carter nodded, but before he could explain she cut him off.

"What did she say?"

Carter looked at her, aware that his response mattered to her in a way that he was not used to seeing. "She said…she said no."

Abby exhaled.

"Ten years ago."

Her chest contracted. "So what did she say this time?"

Carter stared at her intently. "I don't know. I didn't ask."

"Then what are you doing with it?"

He didn't answer her. Not right away.

"Do you…do you love her?" Abby asked, unable to pretend that the answer to that question didn't matter, unable to pretend that she didn't care or that she didn't want to know.

"Not the way she wants me to. Not the way she deserves."

"That's stupid," Abby said, her voice thready. "You don't love somebody because they deserve it, you love them because they don't. That's what love is."

Carter looked down. The ring now rested in the hollow of his hand. When he looked up she was already walking away from him.

"Abby?" Carter jogged after her. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going home," Abby said, without stopping. "It's cold out here."

"Abby." Impatiently, Carter caught at her arm. 

Abby turned around, so that even in the waning daylight he could still see the expression on her face. 

"I shouldn't be here with you," she began, her voice low but clear as the wind whipped around her. "I don't want to wish bad things for you and Phil. I don't want to sit on the sidelines waiting for you to break up, and--"

She stopped. And the expression on her face--half misery, half longing, and all his own for so long--flung the breath right out of him as he realized that she was about to say what he had waited to hear her say for three years.

"I love you."

She didn't dare look at his face as she turned to walk away.

*

"Fourth down, one to go, and the Bears are on their own twenty seven."

American football. Luka had never cared much for American football. But he couldn't find anything else to watch in spite of his four hundred and twenty nine channels. Hard to believe but there it was. 

He glanced at his watch. An hour to go before his night shift.

He supposed he could do something productive with this hour. He supposed he could finish the painting. But that would mean doing something he didn't really feel like doing. It wasn't hard to figure out that Abby was avoiding him, it wasn't hard to figure out what that said about her and him.

So he decided to make her job easier. He started avoiding her, too.

He was in the middle of deciding whether he should watch American football or show up to work early when the doorbell rang. He ignored it; he reclined in his chair and turned up the volume on the game.

The doorbell rang again. And again. And again.

"Who is it?" he called loudly.

No answer.

Sighing, he swung his legs off the chair and trotted to the door.

"Hi," said Abby, when the door opened.

"Hi," said Luka, blinking. She was the last person he had expected to see on his doorstep.

Fidgeting, Abby forced herself to look him squarely in the eye. "Can we talk?"

Luka opened his mouth, and then closed it again. She never did grow tired of surprising him. But then again he suspected he never did grow tired of being surprised by her.

Still.

He gave her a frigid look. "So now you want to talk?"

Abby winced; his voice sounded positively acidic. "I deserved that."

Luka remained unmoved.

"Please," Abby pleaded. "I know I've been avoiding you, and I'm sorry."

Luka stared at her. They had always been so bad at this, at talking. The limits of language were so painfully clear; in a way, English was a second tongue for both of them. What he remembered of their time together was the way he used to reach for her in the dark or the way she would come to his side when he least expected it. What he could not recall was a single thing of importance she had said that was not in anger. 

"Sure," Luka said, softly, and he moved aside. "Come in."

Abby stepped inside. She heard the door close and lock behind her. This is it, she told herself. No running. No going back.

Luka held his hands out to her. It was such a simple gesture, and seemed to say to her in one moment exactly what his words said in the next.

"What do you want?"

"I want to talk."

Folding his arms across the chest, he leaned against the door and waited for her to continue. All exits barred, Abby noted to herself. Maybe she could use the window if things got really hairy. He did, after all, have a fire escape.

"So talk."

Abby was very still for a moment. She reminded herself that whatever had happened between them, whatever was happening between them, she still cared about him. Very much.

And she owed him this much.

"You were right," Abby said. "I was never happy."

Luka looked puzzled for a moment, and then he closed his eyes in recognition. As she knew he would.

"I'm sorry I took it out on you. I'm sorry I didn't even give us a chance."

The room was dark, and lamplight lit his features.

"So give us a chance," he said. "We'll start over. Do things differently."

"I can't," Abby said. 

"We made a lot of mistakes--"

"I don't want to make another one."

Luka was very quiet for a moment. "So that's it."

Heart full of ache, Abby nodded. He deserved better than her. Someone who wouldn't look at him as a second best, someone who wouldn't settle. Houses were supposed to settle, not people. Maybe if it were a different time, a different place…

No, Abby thought. It's this time, and this place, and these choices, and I choose to live with that. He deserves someone who can make him happy. We both do.

"I finished your painting."

There was something heavy and stiff in his voice, but with his permission she crossed the room and stood in front of the covered easel. Slowly, she took a hold of the hem; slowly, she used her hand to lift the sheet--

She found herself facing herself. Surreal, and strange, and fantastic, and--

"Unfinished," Abby managed to say. "It's not finished."

"No," Luka said. "It's done."

Abby felt her throat tighten. "I'm sorry. Luka, I'm sorry."

Luka nodded. She was a dream he kept having, but like all dreams this one too had an end. He guessed that this was his waking, and he felt his heart break.

When she left, she left behind his gift: snow falling on a Croatian village, in a glass globe that played "Greensleeves".

*

Ominous heavy clouds gathered as Carter picked his way down a sidewalk glazed with water and with ice. The heels of his shoes stamped fragile fossils upon the ice-encrusted landscape and left a fairytale trail of footprints behind him. If he followed them back they would take him to Northwestern, to Phil and to his father.

He continued walking forward. 

As he walked through a flood of ambulance light, he felt as if he was moving underwater: everything came slowly, sluggishly. He wondered, not for the first time, if he could trade these things--the long hours and the thankless pay, too much starch on his sleeves and then too much blood, the things he loved--for the things that were asked of him, for the other things that mattered. His father, duty and family, a position at the head of the table. He wondered if he could stomach it. This wasn't the kind of choice he would have had to make ten years ago, a med student unshakable in his faith in a better person and a better world, in better choices. But it was the kind of choice he had to make now. He lived in this world, with these people and these choices, however wrong they all seemed to be.

And apparently there was a lot he could stomach when he saw his father looking at him from behind a sheet of hospital glass, death all at once a ghost of the past and a question to be answered by the future.

Carter walked through the double doors, glass sliding open before him and behind him. He waved to Susan who was standing behind the desk.

She looked surprised to see him. "Are you on?"

He shook his head. "You?" 

"Night shift. What are you doing here?"

"Got some business to take care of," he responded, before heading into the lounge.

Luka was in the lounge, seated at the table with a stack of charts and a cup of coffee. "Hey, Carter."

"Hey."

"You on tonight?"

"Nope." Carter spun the dial and his locker door popped open. "Are you?"

Luka studied his movements. "No. Are you leaving?"

Carter didn't bother to ask how Luka found out; these things just sort of made their way through the ER gossip mill. He turned around, a sheet of paper in his hands. "I guess I am."

"I'm sorry to hear about your father," Luka said, putting his pen down.

Carter groped for a pen. "Thanks."

"Is that why you're leaving?"

Carter was silent for a minute before answering. "Don't have much else left to lose."

You're in love, Luka thought. Everyone in love has something left to lose.

Aloud, "Have you talked to Abby?"

Involuntarily, Carter tensed. In his mind he saw very clearly the image of her walking away--and he had let her. He had stood there, dazed and dizzy, a ring in his hand, a name in his throat, and he had not gone after her.

Carter pressed his lips together. "I saw her earlier today. Why?"

Luka regarded him silently. "No reason." He cleared his throat. "She's been avoiding me."

He suppressed a smile as he pulled a pen from his briefcase. "That sounds like the Abby we all know and--"

"Love?" Luka supplied. 

"Tolerate," Carter said.

"You're in love with her."

The edges of his vision blurred, and his heart beat rapidly against his ribcage. He felt alive, so alive, in a way he hadn't felt for a very long time.

"Aren't you?" Carter said at last.

Luka's eyes flickered, but his face betrayed no emotion. Instead, he rose from his chair and walked over to stand in front of Carter.

He extended his hand: a concession, or a confession; Carter could not tell. 

"We will miss you."

*

Carter signed the letter with a hand that was still warm from handshake, and a pen his father had given him. He sat outside Kerry Weaver's office with the letter in a sealed envelope, and the envelope in both hands. She had asked him to wait for her there.

Exhausted, Carter closed his eyes. It was a different kind of exhaustion from the one he had been experiencing with the closing of the year, not born of the certainty that he had nothing but of the peace that came with doing everything, everything he could to hold on to what he had. An exhaustion born not of releasing the past but of carrying it.

A face appeared. Phil. Her eyes, bright; her smile, uncomplicated and undeserved as ever. _You know I care_, she said. _How can you even think for a moment I don't care?_

Suddenly, Susan was gazing at him. With great gentleness and pity, and when she spoke her voice had none of its usual hard, sarcastic edge.

_You better make up your mind._

But she, too, disappeared as quickly as she had appeared. In her place his dad appeared, hazy and wavering and mirage-like.

_It's a responsibility, John. It's your responsibility. But it's an honor, not a burden._

Then he heard Luka, his voice catching.

_You're in love with her. _

Carter caught the other man's eye, briefly. But Luka, too, disappeared, in a swirl of color and light.

And then--

Abby.

_You don't love somebody because they deserve it. You love them because they don't. That's what love is._

She looked at him, smiling as she did only for him.

_I love you._

"Carter?"

Startled, he opened his eyes. Kerry Weaver peered into his face.

"I'm sorry to hear you'll be leaving us," she said, an unusual gentleness replacing the usual brusqueness of her voice.

Carter rose from his chair, the envelope in his hand. "You've still got me for two weeks."

"I wish there was something we could do about it," Kerry said, shaking her head. "I've asked for more money in the budget--"

"I know," said Carter. "It's my choice."

"Well," said Kerry, the sentiment all but gone from her voice, "There's a reason I wanted you to come to my office. There's someone here to see you."

Carter looked at her questioningly, and then looked inside the room. There was a woman seated in the office, young, no more than thirty years old. When she saw him she smiled with her mouth but not with her eyes.

"Dr. Carter," Kerry said quietly, "This is Alicia Holbrooke. Her husband was in a car accident with you two months ago."

Time slowed, folding in upon itself, he was standing on nothing, he was holding nothing, he was nothing, rainheadlightsshatteredglassmemory screaming in his head--

Time slowed, thickened to a syrupy consistency, and swallowed him whole.

*      *      *

CREDITS: The quotation from the beginning of the chapter is courtesy of Leonard Cohen, who also supplies the title and quotation for Part I with his take on "Greensleeves" entitled "Leaving Greensleeves". The quotation for Part II is taken from Gabriel Garcia Marquez's _Love in the Time of Cholera._ Echoes of "Rampage", "The Longer You Stay", and "Hindsight" are scattered throughout the chapter for those who may find themselves experiencing an odd sense of déjà vu at frequent intervals. ^_^


	11. Everything Is Illuminated

TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (11/12)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK). 

RATING: PG-13

SPOILERS: Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel _Through the Door_

ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: A healthy helping of thanks goes to everyone who reviewed TBTS10: Steelerfan, ceb, Maven, not-so-dumb-blonde, Emma Stuart, Nora_lmc, Amanda, Fran, Lilkimi88, Rebecca Gower, EBStarr, JD, flutiedutiedute, er…, Jackie, KenzieGal, Lana, Ceri, charli, jakeschick, and enigma00. I mean what I say: you guys keep me going. 

A double helping of thanks to charli. Not only is she a wonderful beta-reader, but she is a wonderful friend.

SUMMARY: Sex, lies (by omission), and the return of an unexpected visitor on this, the night before Christmas and Carter's last shift at County. 

*      *      *

CHAPTER TEN

Everything Is Illuminated

*      *      *

**Part One: Weight**

_Eventually, like the rain,  
You and I are going to fall some day._

_*_

_Christmas Eve, two weeks later._

"December decoration. Starts with t."

"Tinsel," Luka said.

"Tarmac," Abby said at the same time.

"Tarmac?" Luka and Susan replied in unison.

"What? You've seen the roads in the winter."

Luka rolled his eyes. "How would you know? You don't drive."

"Oh, what, so now you need a Viper to spy a pothole the size of Montana?"

"They don't repave the roads until the spring, anyway."

"Tree," blurted Susan, who had been silent throughout their exchange. "December decoration. Starts with t. Four letters."

"You didn't say four letters," Luka objected

"That's not even a decoration," Abby grumbled.

Over the newspaper, Susan raised an eyebrow. "Right, because tarmac is all the rage this holiday season." 

Shrugging, Abby gave her a lopsided smile before busying herself with a stack of charts.

"Hey," Luka said, leaning over Susan's shoulder and looking just the teeniest big smug, "You do your crosswords in pen."

"Yeah," Susan said, without looking up. "Pots and kettles. I know, I know."

Luka took a large bite out of the apple he was eating. Mouth full of food, he pointed at one section of the crossword. "I think you made a mistake."

Irritably, Susan yanked the newspaper away from him. "Hey! Hands off!"

"Sharing is caring," Carter interrupted. He had just come in from the cold, and his head and shoulders were covered with a heavy dusting of snow. He nodded at Luka's apple. "You guys are an occupational hazard."

"Oh yeah?" said Luka, looking mildly indifferent as he took another large bite. "Probably."

"A regular menace to society," Abby interjected. "Have you seen his Viper?"

Carter raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What?"

"Abby doesn't like potholes," Luka explained.

"Hey, I thought you'd never get here," Chen said, interrupting them all as she walked up to the desk.

Carter shook the snow off his hat. "Me? Miss my last shift? Never in a million years."

"A hero's last day at County," Susan snarked, looking up from her newspaper to grin at him. "Sellout."

"Hey," Carter protested, dodging Susan's verbal assault. "I didn't sell out, I bought in."

Susan laughed. "Whatever. Since it's your foundation I'll let it slide. This time."

"So big of you, Susan," Carter teased. "Or should I say--Big Suzie."

Luka perked up. "Big Suzie?"

"Was that a name given to you by your fellow inmates?" Abby inquired, widening her eyes innocently.

Susan gave a huge, martyred sigh. "Yeah. You know how I said I was in Arizona? Well, that's all a lie. I was doing time."

"Well, you just keep unfolding like a flower," Abby remarked.

"Don't I?"

Chen burst out in laughter. 

"What?" they said in unison.

Looking at the four of them, Chen shook her head. "They only come out at night."

*

The snow had let up by the time Susan clocked out of her shift and stepped out of the ER. Overhead, a streetlight buzzed, the bulb skipping like a bad tape. Across the way Doc Magoo's was lit up like a merry-go-round, jewel-bright with Christmas lights, windows glowing with a flurry of last-minute shoppers.

But Luka sat on a bench alone, almost out of view. Winter light graced his face, dark hair and dark eyes outlined by the last of the snow, a look of fierce concentration on his face. Susan recognized that face well enough to know what he was doing: exorcising demons.

"Hey," Susan said. "What's with the tragedy mask?"

Luka shifted his gaze onto her, dark and brooding. Every bit the tragic hero. Susan smiled in spite of herself. "Hey."

She sat down beside him. "Want to get some coffee?"

"I'm fine," Luka said, dusting the snow off his knees.

"Liar," Susan said good-naturedly, as she gestured towards his eyes. "Bags like those don't fit in the overhead compartment."

Self-conscious, Luka rubbed at his eyes. "Are you off?"

"Yeah. I've got to go home and grab the gifts. But I'll be back for the party." Susan paused, and looked over at him over the edge of her scarf. "It's kind of cold out here, don't you think?"

He gazed outward, into the street, at the tire tracks that burned scars into the snow. "Pretty enough."

"Now that's the artist talking. Pretty doesn't cut it for me, not when it's below freezing."

"It's not so bad, relatively speaking."

Susan snorted. "Relative to what? Global warming? Because at this point I think I'd take the melting of the polar ice caps over a second Ice Age, any day."

Unexpectedly, Luka laughed. A real laugh. At last, a pulse.

"Come on." She nudged him with her shoulder. "Throw me a bone."

Luka leaned back in his seat. His breath flowered in the frigid air. "Isn't it obvious?"

Sympathetic, Susan smiled at him. "She turned you down, did she?"

He clasped and unclasped his hands, wordless. 

"There are other fish in the sea, you know."

Luka smiled, but avoided her eyes. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"Listen," Susan said, impulsively. "You're funny, you're attractive, you've got a good head on your shoulders. You paint and you recite Shakespeare. Everything's going to be just fine."

He turned to her, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You think I'm attractive?"

"You know how my foot likes to live in my mouth." 

From faraway the wail of a siren sounded. Simultaneously, they turned their gaze to the streets clogged with last-minute shoppers, and gutters full of dirty snow. 

"So I was thinking," Susan said. "What are you doing tonight? Because you should come over if you don't have any plans. Nobody should be alone on Christmas."

"It's Christmas Eve," Luka pointed out.

"Christmas, Christmas Eve. Whatever."

"Is this a pity date?"

"More like a mutual appreciation society."

Luka laughed, and brushed the snow off his hair. "Okay."

Susan grinned. "Okay."

*

Slipping into a miraculously empty room, Carter said a little prayer of thanks to whatever higher power had decided to deliver his Christmas gift early. He shut the door behind him and killed the lights, allowing himself the luxury of a stolen moment. Exhaling, he checked his watch: two hours until midnight, and the end of his shift. Two hours left until he was history.

Weariness radiated from his bones; a neat staccato sliced through his skull. Wave upon wave of drowsiness made his knees weak with exhaustion, his body less obedient and his mind blunted. He reached behind him almost reflexively, touched the place where his scars marked their ownership of him. White and fleshy like the crumpled petals of a flower, they read like raised text on a page, told the story of a dark and exquisite pain.

"Carter?"

The light buzzed on. He opened his eyes--big mistake. Immediately, they began to water.

"Kill the lights."

Obediently, Abby flipped the switch. 

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

Folding her arms across her chest, Abby leaned back against the closed door. "Clearly."

Carter grunted in response. He went over to the windows and began to shut the blinds. His body was strung up like a marionette, tension threading through his body like a taut wire. The streetlight that poured through the windows revealed deep lines of grief on his face. The kind of lines that could cut people less accustomed to heartache.

"You don't look so good," she said.

"Thanks. With friends like you who needs severe head traumas?"

"That's funny. Good thing I'm in the ER because I almost killed myself laughing."

Carter gave her a wan smile. "Can we pretend we already had this conversation?"

"What conversation?"

"The one where you ask me what's wrong and I give you vague half-answers."

"Okay. How about we pretend to have the conversation where I ask you what's wrong and you tell me the truth?"

Carter smiled at her, a real smile this time. The room was dark, but her face was lambent with the snowlight that spilled in between the slits in the blinds. He began pacing, narrowing the space between them. "Well, that's no fun."

"I wasn't aware this was supposed to be fun." Abby pushed herself off the door. "Now what are you doing here?"

He gave her a roughish grin. "Hiding."

"Not from me, I hope."

"Nope, not from you."

"Good." Abby paused, as if deciding whether to continue, and pursed her lips in what Carter considered her signature face. "Because I feel like you are."

He stopped pacing. "What?"

Abby spoke slowly, each word a chunk of ice dropping into the pit of his stomach.

"Hiding. From me. From everyone. For the last two weeks."

Carter looked genuinely surprised. "This is news to me."

"You don't return my phone calls. You barely make it through your shifts. You're not sleeping and you look like hell. It's like you're not even here."

He was silent for a moment, nailed in place. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," Abby said. "Tell me this isn't what it looks like."

The room was very quiet when Carter answered, his eyes becoming huge in his thin face as he came near her. "I haven't relapsed. If that's what you're asking."

"Sure," Abby said, finally. "I guess so. I don't know."

Carter looked at her, oddly. "You don't sound very convinced."

"I don't know," Abby repeated. "Maybe because I'm…not. Two weeks ago I said something I probably shouldn't have said and I said it because I felt like it was the right thing to do. But now I'm thinking that I don't know what the right thing is, anymore. If there even is a right thing."

Suddenly exhausted, she stepped back until she felt her shoulder blades pressing up against the door. And then she felt him standing over her, felt his breath on her neck. Quiet as snowfall. 

"I don't know what this is," he said. "But I know that this is right."

Darkness closed in like a fist, opened like a flower, beat like a heart. It had been so long--he had forgotten what it was like, what she was like. In the darkness he reached out for her and it was not like reaching out for Phil, who had beautiful hands, slim wrists and tapered fingers. Instead, the tips of Abby's fingers were work-hardened, her nails round and inelegant, her hands small and shaking, as he reached out into the darkness and found her. 

But then again, everything about Abby felt small except for her heart. 

"Don't do that," she said softly.

"Don't do what?" he whispered.

When she spoke, she spoke with her mouth just over his heart. 

"Don't know me like that."

Before he could stop her, before he could ask her to stay, she had pulled herself away from him. The door slammed shut behind her.

*

Abby stood in the ambulance bay, smoking cigarette after cigarette and spitting out the smoke in time to the throbbing in her head. The sky began to dump freezing rain, and she cursed herself for not seeing this coming, for not realizing that something so effortless could come to mean so much, until it was far too late.   
  


She was so stupid.

Stupid, Abby said to herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid--

"Abby!"

Abby stared in disbelief. Well, she thought, I guess it's a small world after all. "Phil. Hi." 

Phil cut a slight figure in the gloom, but her bright hair shone like lamplight. "Hey," she said, slightly breathless from running through the rain. "What are you doing out here? It's miserable tonight."

"Break," Abby said, smiling tightly, her voice thick with cigarette smoke. She rummaged through her pockets and pulled out a half-crumpled pack. "Want one?"

"No, thanks. Causes cancer."

Phil grinned to show that she wasn't being entirely serious. Her hair was twisted back, showing off the curve of her mouth, the smooth line of her neck. She looked very pretty, and very in control.

Abby felt an overwhelming wave of dislike for the woman. She squashed it down. 

"Besides," Phil continued. "I quit."

"You?" Abby's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You used to smoke?"

"Like a smoke stack," Phil grinned. "But like I said, I quit."

Abby stared at her. "Why?"

Phil shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't like something controlling me like that."

"You make it sound so simple," Abby said, putting out her cigarette. She watched the rain stain the filter paper like oil. "Easy."

Phil looked thoughtful for a moment. "It wasn't that hard once I took the money I used to buy cigarettes and used it to buy Ben and Jerry's."

In spite of herself, Abby felt her mouth twist into a reluctant smile. "Now those are a couple of men I can get behind."

"There aren't that many of them, are there?" Phil said agreeably. She flashed Abby a companionable smile, and Abby was suddenly seized by an overwhelming and unexpected sense of guilt. "John's inside, isn't he?"

"He's here," Abby said, swallowing the guilt with the taste of nicotine. "He's working."

"He never says anything, but I know he's going to miss it here."

"He's a little crazy. Don't hold it against him."

Phil laughed.

"I should probably go in," Abby said finally, the roar of the water like the ocean pressed against her ear.

"I'll go with you," Phil said quickly, and she followed Abby along the building, under the concrete overhanging, and into the ER.

"Hey!" Susan greeted Abby as soon as they walked in. "Look what the cat dragged in. I was looking for you--"

She cut herself off, doing a double-take.

"Abby? And Phil?"

"Hi." Phil smiled, and shook out her umbrella. "Merry Christmas, Susan."

Susan recovered with aplomb. "Hi! Phil! Merry Christmas!"

"I brought the cake," Phil said, and for the first time Abby noticed that Phil was carrying a very large shopping bag. "Where should I put it?"

"Great, I've got the gifts. We can stash this stuff in the lounge."

Susan ushered Phil away, and threw Abby a look of concern which went stubbornly ignored. When she returned, Phil-less, Abby was nowhere in sight.

"Hey Frank, have you seen Abby?"

"She said something about checking on a patient in OB," Frank said, busily creating what looked to her like a very complicated chart. "By the way, we're starting a pool if you want in."

Susan blinked. "A pool?"

"Yeah." Frank lowered his voice. "Carter or Luka."

Susan looked at him blankly. "Carter or Luka what?"

Frank leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "We're taking bets on Abby."

"Oh _God_," Susan exclaimed, snatching the chart and stuffing it into her coat pocket before Frank could react. "Real classy, guys."

*

Patients screamed at you no matter where you worked at County, but in OB they screamed at you not because they hated you but because they were in childbirth. That, Abby could take. So that's where she had chosen to spend her hours picking up shifts as an OB nurse; tending to rows of tiny, blinking faces, their heads bobbed with knitted hats. And that's where she chose to go now.

Abby stood in front of the window and watched as a nurse she didn't recognize fussed with the plastic bracelet on the wrist of what looked like one of the newest arrivals. She watched the nurse, with her brisk movements and her tender smile, and she could hardly believe that she had ever been that young.

Absorbed, she half-closed her eyes. She didn't know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. If she was younger she would have done both, for a long, long time. 

"You can run but you can't hide."

Abby turned around and gave her friend a tight smile. "Hey."

"Hey," Susan said. "I checked the boards, and you're a big fat liar. We haven't moved anyone to OB since I got off at six."

Abby said nothing, just turned her attention back to the sleepy faces in front of her, and felt a sour-sweet ache at the back of her throat. "Did you ever want kids?"

Susan looked taken aback. "Me? Kids? I don't know. I guess so, yeah. I never really thought about it, I mean for the longest time I had Suzie, and Chloe was so irresponsible that it was just like having a kid of my own."

With an effort, Susan stopped. "Why? Do you ever think about having kids?"

Abby reached out to touch the glass with her fingertips. "Sometimes."

Susan's eyes widened. "Oh my god, are you pregnant?"

Abby rolled her eyes. "Jesus, no. Where'd you get that idea?"

"I don't know, you were getting all sentimental on me for a moment."

"It won't happen again."

"Thank God. I wouldn't know what to do with you."

"Where's Phil?" Abby said, abruptly.

Susan took a moment to adjust to the sharp shift in the conversation. "I think she's looking for Carter."

"He's in one of the exam rooms."

"Hmm. I told her he was in Surgery."

Abby grinned. "Surgery?"

Susan grinned back. "Yeah."

"Romano's on, isn't he?"

"Oh yeah."

"Ooh, that's low," Abby said appreciatively.

"I know, I'm a terrible person."

"Moral garbage on legs."

"Wanna go watch?"

"Maybe later," Abby said. "I've got to get back to the ER."

"I'll come with," Susan said. She cast one last look at the newborns before they turned towards the elevator. "How do you know where Carter is, anyway?"

"Sixth sense," said Abby, punching the down button.

"Whatever, I bet you guys were totally making out."

A look of unmistakable guilt flitted across Abby's face.

"Oh. My. God. You weren't. Wait, were you?"

"We were not making out," Abby muttered, more at the ground than at Susan. 

"Really?"

"Really." Abby rolled her eyes. "We're not in junior high."

"Um, I don't know about that," Susan said. "Honestly, you guys should really consider adopting a policy of full disclosure."

Abby concentrated on willing the elevator to come. "Now where would be the fun in that?"

"Right," Susan said. "Because you guys are having so much fun already. I think I'm going to need a flow chart to keep track of who's avoiding who. I don't understand why you don't tell him you love him already."

"Because I already did," Abby said quietly, as the elevator arrived.

Susan was sure her jaw was dropping with the shock when she realized that the doors to the elevator had opened, and Carter and Phil were standing on the other side.

*

For a split second nobody said anything.

"Going down?" Phil said finally.

Susan nodded, and Phil and Carter moved to the side as she and Abby stepped inside the elevator. 

"So you found each other," Susan said, trying to make conversation. Abby stared stoically ahead of her.

"Yes," Phil said, and Carter cleared his throat.

"Where have you two been?" Carter asked, though he directed the question more at Abby than at Susan.

"Checking on a patient," Abby answered for them both, her tone polite.

Carter frowned. "I don't remember sending a patient up to the OB."

"It's on the board," Abby said. 

"That's funny, because I thought--"

"I guess you thought wrong."

Susan winced, and she noticed Phil watching them with a funny look on her face. 

The elevator chimed, and the doors split open.

"Well, that wasn't awkward," Phil remarked, as she watched Susan and Abby disappear down the hallway.

Carter shook his head, a momentary fog disappearing from his eyes. "What?"

Phil followed him down another hallway. "What did you do?"

"Me?" Carter looked incredulous. "I didn't do anything."

"Well, you must have done something. She looked pretty pissed."

"Susan?"

Phil gave him a look. "Abby."

"Right," Carter muttered. "I don't know what's wrong with her."

"Maybe there's something wrong with you," Phil said, under her breath. 

Carter looked at her darkly. "Great, now my ex-girlfriend's giving me advice about my love life."

"Nobody said anything about your love life," Phil pointed out. "And I may be your ex-girlfriend but I'm still your friend."

"We are not having this conversation," Carter moaned.

"Denial," Phil said cheerfully. "Not just a river in Egypt."

"Argh," Carter said, hitting himself on the head with his clipboard. 

"Does she know?" Phil asked, following him into the lounge. Thankfully, all the party preparations had been tucked away into cabinets and lockers.

Carter made a beeline for the coffee machine. "Does who know what?"

Phil enunciated carefully for him. "Does. Abby. Know. That. We're. Not. Dating."

"I don't think it's any of her business."

"Just give me a straight answer, John."

Carter cleared his throat. "No."

"Why the hell not?"

"What do you care?"

"Because you're in love with her!" Phil snapped, and she felt a grim satisfaction as she watched him spill the coffee he was pouring. "I didn't break up with you because I didn't love you or because I thought you didn't love me but because you never once stopped being in love with her the whole time we were together. Any fool can see that but I must be a supreme idiot because it took me so long to admit it to myself and to let go of the past and to break up with you and--_God_--I hope you think I have more self-respect for myself than to be with someone who is in love with another woman."

It was a long time before Carter spoke. At least, it seemed like it, to Phil.

"You didn't break up with me," he said finally, a smile playing on his lips. "I broke up with you."

Phil threw up her hands in exasperation, but she was smiling, and it hurt her to smile. "I think we both knew that something wasn't working for a long time."

For a moment, Carter tried to find his voice. "Doesn't make it any easier."

"No," Phil agreed, her smile sad, "It doesn't."

Carter looked at her for a moment, considering. 

"I have something for you," he said at last.

Before Phil could ask what it was, he was at his locker, reaching inside and rummaging through its contents. He pulled something out. 

"I'm sorry I didn't wrap it," he said.

Phil swallowed. It was a ring, and it was _the_ ring. It was their ring. "This--this--I can't keep this."

"No." Carter felt his throat close. "It belongs to you."

And as he held her, this girl, his girl, who was beautiful and proud and radiant, he realized that she was no longer the one person he had never known to cry.

*

Moments--seconds, maybe minutes; it was hard to tell--passed before the door to the lounge swung open.

"Carter?"

It was Abby.

Quickly, Phil stepped out of his embrace.

"Sorry," Abby blurted. 

"It's okay," Carter said quickly. "What is it?"

Abby looked from him to Phil and back again. "There's someone here to see you."

"Can it wait?" Carter said, his voice tired.

"No," Abby said, biting her lip so hard she was surprised she didn't draw blood. "I don't think it can."

"Who is it?" he asked.

"I don't know. She wouldn't give me her name. But she said she wasn't leaving unless you saw her."

Concerned, Carter looked over at Phil, who had--miraculously--composed herself in the few short seconds he had been talking to Abby. 

"Well?" Phil said, her face a blank slate.

Carter shrugged, and followed Abby into the ER.

"This isn't what it looks like, Abby," he murmured near her ear.

"What _what_ looks like?" Abby said automatically, unable to wrap her lips around his name.

"We're not--" he was about to say, but he cut himself off.

People--their heads bent, their eyes trained on the ground--were scattered among the chairs in the waiting area. Garish chairs, he thought, a hideous shade of orange. Strange choice for a lifesaver but people held onto the armrests as if the very fact of their existence--or perhaps that of another--depended on it. 

People were praying, people were pacing, but only one woman stood up to greet him.

"Dr. Carter," she said. "I'm Alicia Holbrooke."

Abby stared; Carter had gone astonishingly pale. 

"I know," he said.

*

His vision blackened, and in that moment it was as if he were dreaming: a flurry of images fluttered through his head like a flock of birds taking flight--and him, left on the ground. A woman was standing over a grave, the expression on her face thin and razed, topography for the dead of winter. He smelled the earth in his fist, heard the sound it made when it hit the coffin lid. The sky was seizing; water lashed at three thousand pounds of paint and chrome of glass, of pure wreckage.

"Carter?"

Dizzily, he blinked his eyes open. Abby. It took all his willpower not to grab her and run.

"Dr. Carter?"

Alicia was looking at him, trying to smile. He was startled. He saw Phil looking at him, with that blond hair sliding into her eyes, the directness of her stare. He shook his head. No, this woman was younger, sadder. Softer around the edges. Her eyes were not gray, but blue: an intense, hurtful blue. A gas stove turned on low.

He had seen those eyes, once before, two weeks ago. He had left his resignation, and he had left her. Staggered into his apartment and lay face down on his bed, memory tracing the contours of her face. He did not sleep that night or the next, or any night thereafter. 

But this time he could not leave. This time, this time, he saw something that he had not seen last time. He saw something that threatened to bring him to his knees. 

Alicia Holbrooke was a mother.

*      *      *

**Part Two: Lightness**

_It's been a long time coming  
And I cant stop now  
Such a long time running  
And I can't stop now_

*

Nobody took particular notice of them as they threaded their way past the emptied tables of the cafeteria, chairs pushed out and floor littered with used napkins. Carter purposely found a table in the back of the room; the low buzz of conversation in the room and their location in the corner would offer them a modicum of privacy. 

They sat by the window, the sound of the rain steady as a metronome. He knew that any person passing them by might easily mistake them for a family, a man sitting down to dinner with his young wife and child, and the guilt pierced him keenly.

"How old is she?" Carter said at last. He nodded towards Alicia's daughter. Pink-cheeked and sweet-faced, she looked no more than a couple of months old.

"She was born in November."

Carter swallowed. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt heavy as lead. "I was told you were pregnant."

"Who told you?"

He paused. "I don't remember."

Alicia gazed out the window. She bore the look of a person whose whole life had happened to her without permission, whose whole life had been a violation, and she now looked at her reflection as blankly as if she were looking at a stranger. Carter followed her gaze and caught his own reflection in the glass, hazy and indistinct, interrupted by the scattering of raindrops.

He heard a soft rustle, and then his wallet was on the table. The one that had been lost on the night of the accident. Or so he had thought.

He looked at her; bewildered, blinking. "I thought the police said they couldn't find it."

"I guess the police didn't do a thorough job. When I visited the site of the accident I found it on the side of the road. I looked through it to find your phone number. I hope you don't mind."

Carter stared at the wallet. The faded leather contrasted dully with the dirty Formica. It looked like an anthropological relic, meant to be kept behind glass. Not something of his. 

He gave her a papery smile. "It's okay."

"You never returned my phone calls."

He felt sick inside. "I didn't know what to say."

"I just wanted to tell you how sorry I was. Am."

"Sorry?" Carter blurted. "Excuse me?"

"My husband…" Alicia paused, and brushed discreetly at her eyes. "He wasn't a bad man."

"I know," Carter said, although he didn't.

"He liked to drink," she said. She kept her voice low as her daughter slept in her arms. "But he wasn't a bad man."

"I know," Carter said again, and though he didn't really, some part of him thought he did. For the first time in a long time he felt not guilt, not sympathy, but communion. Shared grief.

He stared at her. "I'm sorry."

Now it was her turn to look surprised. "For what?"

For making this about me when it never was, he realized. He had thought about himself and only himself for so long that he had never stopped to consider the alternative: that she called him not because she wanted something from him but because she might have something to give him.

"I know what it's like to lose someone you love," Carter said, careful not to make it too much about him, careful not to make the same mistake again. "I know how easy it is to feel guilty, to feel like it's your fault or there's something you could've done. And I thought that that was what this was about. But it's not."

Alicia looked at him. In the steadiness of her blue eyes he saw the sleepless nights that had cut his knees out from under him--and that which had cut hers, too. 

"I'm sorry for your loss," Carter said. "I'm sorry I waited until it was too late to tell you."

*

Susan caught up to Abby as the latter was punching out her time card. "Are you on break?"

"I'm off." Abby finished winding her scarf around her neck. "Merry Christmas to me."

"Join the club," Susan said. "You're all bundled up--where are you going?"

Abby rummaged through her pockets. She pulled out a lighter. "Outside." 

"Not for too long, I hope."

"I know, I know, these things give you cancer."

"That, and it's almost time to party," Susan reminded her.

"I can't wait," Abby muttered.

"Your enthusiasm is contagious."

"Thank you."

"So what are you doing afterwards?"

"Home."

"Rockin' the monosyllabic answers here. You sure you don't want to come over? Luka and I--"

An eyebrow.

"Luka?"

"Yes?" Susan said, innocently.

Using a fingertip, Abby rubbed at the corner of an eye. "I think I'm just going to go home," she said, turning to walk away. "Thanks, though."

Susan stared at her retreating figure. She imagined her friend at home, sitting in her dark apartment, slouched over on her sofa with her face in her hands. On Christmas. 

"I could invite Carter," Susan blurted, "If you want."

Bullseye. Abby froze, nailed in place, her shoulders tense and her body rigid.

"You love him, huh?" Susan said, in a voice low enough so that only Abby could hear her. She smiled sadly, trains and Arizona summers in her head. "So stop running away from it."

*

The air was cold and cut-glass cruel, the concrete paved with a slick layer of ice, but Abby found herself outside anyway. Her cheeks were burning, her eyes smarting with cigarette smoke. She was down to her last cigarette. So she smoked it slowly, her cheeks hollowing out in suction as she watched the cars passing by.

"Hey."

Abby looked up from her cigarette. "Hey, Luka."

Luka offered her his coat. She shook her head. Wordless, he draped it over her shoulders anyway.

Abby forced herself to smile. "Thanks. What time is it?"

"Midnight," Luka said, checking his watch. "Almost. When are you off?"

"Midnight," Abby echoed. She dropped her cigarette, ground it out in the slush. "I punched out early. What about you?"

"I was off with Susan."

Abby looked at him, surprised. "What are you still doing here?"

Luka shrugged, and smiled at her. "I didn't want to miss the party."

"I bet you're just here for the cake," she teased, hugging herself to stay warm.

"I am a big fan of cake," Luka admitted. "I've heard that Dr. Weston is a good cook."

"Is there anything she isn't?" Abby muttered to herself, but Luka heard her.

"She isn't you."

Abby felt her heart skip a beat. She wasn't used to hearing those kinds of things. 

She gave him a wobbly smile. "And the world has God to thank for that."

Luka held a hand out, rain splattering onto his palm before he quickly withdrew his arm. "What are you doing after this?"

"Nothing much," Abby said. "Home."

"I'm going to Susan's. You should come."

Abby let herself look at him for a long moment. She had left him alone, in the inkspill of his dark apartment, and she had not let herself look back as she walked into that night. Not for the first time since she left she resisted the urge to walk back into his arms, into the intimacy of his grief and into the memory of what was familiar and done. 

It was hard. Everything had been wrong: they were over before either ever had a chance to figure out what they could have meant to each other. Maybe if things were different they could have been different. But they could only be who they were. So they had learned to dance without touching. And now that she was on her own the first few steps were like learning how to walk all over again. 

Abby straightened up and handed him his coat. "Maybe some other time."

"Okay." Luka looked at her awkwardly for a moment, his coat warm from her touch. "Merry Christmas, Abby."

"Merry Christmas, Luka," Abby echoed.

And then she did something neither of them expected, and she hugged him. 

As he watched her go, he could still feel the warmth of her body printed indelibly onto his, the scent of nicotine and rain in his head. And then he followed her inside.

*

Carter stood under the rain as the cab disappeared from sight, taking Alicia and her child with it. He watched as the tail lights disappeared into the gloom, their imprint lingering on his vision like fireflies.

"Hi," Phil said, coming up behind him. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Carter echoed, shaking the water from his collar.

"It's after midnight," Phil said, and she glanced sideways at him under the rain. 

Carter checked his watch, his wrist heavy with its weight. "So it is." 

"Shouldn't you be turning into a pumpkin or something?"

"Something," Carter agreed, a smile on his lips.

"Do you regret it?" Phil asked suddenly. "Quitting?"

Carter thought of his father, and shook his head. "Everything has a price," he said, and then he smiled--a sad, ironic smile. "I'm a Carter. I can afford it."

Gently, she took a hold of his elbow and steered him back into the ER. "I enjoy having respect for you, Carter. Please don't ruin it for me."

Carter raised an eyebrow, a curious smile lighting his face. "What did you call me?"

"Oh," Phil said. "Shit."

Carter followed her gaze: she was staring in dismay at a huddled group of nurses and doctors, all of whom had their backs turned away from the couple.

Susan turned around first, and her eyes popped open when she saw him. "Carter!" she squeaked comically, and one by one the other heads in the group turned towards him as well. If Carter wasn't so tired he would have burst out laughing. He hadn't thought it was possible but there it was: exhaustion beyond laughter. 

"Surprise?" Luka said, finally.

"Uh…" Despite himself, Carter felt the muscles in his jaw twitching. He tried hard not to smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that."

And before he knew it there were people hugging him, people slapping his back, people shaking his hand, people kissing his cheek, people telling him not to worry because it was all Weaver's idea--except for the cake, because that was Phil's idea, and did he like it?

Carter nodded, unable to speak. He was touched.

Ten minutes later--a minute for each year he had lived in this place--the party was in full swing, as much as it could be under Kerry's watchful eye. Carter carried with him a small trophy in the shape of a gold watch (for early retirement, Yosh volunteered), and a beautifully framed photo of the ER staff he didn't remember being taken. Somewhere after those ten minutes Luka shook his head and left--with Susan, Carter was amused to see. He was about to tease her but she shut him up good: her eyes were brimming as she hugged him and wished him a Merry Christmas. 

"The taste in your mouth--that's adrenaline."

"What?" Carter asked, looking up from his first mouthful of cake.

"The bitter taste," Phil said, in his ear, and she reached to wipe the frosting from the side of his mouth. "That's adrenaline, not cake."

"Thanks," he said absently.

Phil dropped her hand with a resigned sigh. "Go. Get out of here. Before I change my mind."

Carter looked at her, his eyes dark with surprise, and Phil was thrown: he was seventeen again, his face anxious and serious and determined, his eyes full with the love-light of youth. He reached out and, very lightly, touched her on the cheek. She blinked rapidly, a sweet-sour ache in the back of her throat. This was her grace-note.

Then he vanished, and it with him.

*

The city was pink with Christmas and snow when Carter had entered the ER, but now the city was bleeding sleet. His pace quickened with the moment, with the rapid hammering of his pulse. She was at the El before he caught up to her--ice and water in his hair, the cold and exhaustion wearing down his bones, but a sureness speeding his steps. 

"Abby!" he called, as he ducked under the gate.

Slowly, she turned around and looked at him, her lashes wet. His stomach lurched, and an almost unbearable fluttering erupted in his stomach: the return of a slow-bruising ache, just over his heart. 

"Don't you ever give up?"

Carter stared at her, a loud rumbling in his ears. Before he even knew what he was doing, he had seized her wrist and was pulling her to him.

"Come home with me," he whispered in her ear.

He let her go before she could push him away.

But Abby said nothing, just looked at him with eyes that were too bright as the train behind her opened its doors. He stared: she did not turn her head to look at him as she walked inside the car. 

The doors closed, and the train pulled out of the station. He watched it disappear, water falling from the sky and into his eyes.

*

Slowly, Abby made her way home, ignoring the rain and rubbing the water from her eyes as she passed churches filled for Midnight Mass and homes whose windows were lit up with Christmas tree lights. As she walked she longed for spring to come again to this city, to this place she had come to call home; longed for the lengthening not only of days but of distance; for a light that lingered at dusk and a sky that felt just right; for something other than the formless, mysterious ache that had planted itself over her heart.

She spoke to herself, her lips moving in the dark. 

_You don't want any of this. But you'll let it happen anyway._

She opened the door. Inside, her shoes squeaked on the linoleum as she collected her mail: junk, and a pair of last-minute Christmas cards. She tucked it all under an arm and made her way up the dark stairwell, squeezing water from her hair.

Her apartment was silent and dark. She threw off her wet clothes en route to the bedroom, pulled on an old turtleneck and jeans before returning to the living room. She flipped on a lamp and checked her answering machine: no messages. 

Raking a hand through her hair, she dumped her mail in her lap and pulled out the Christmas cards. She noted, with surprise, that one of the cards was from Richard. Lifting the flap of the envelope, she pulled out one of those cards with a family portrait tucked into the front: Richard, Corinne, Adam, and Meg. She stared at it, the ghost of a smile on her lips, and she propped it up on her coffee table, next to the card from her brother. Eric was good about holidays; he was a big believer in Hallmark. 

Impulsively, she got up and disappeared into her bedroom. Her apartment had very little in the way of photographs. There was one of her with her brother in his uniform; somewhere she had tucked away one of Maggie when she was going through one of her better times. Abby kept them both because she had to. The blood that ran through her veins was the same blood that ran through her brother, that used to run through her mother. Sever those ties and not only would she spill the blood that bound them together but which kept her alive. 

When she emerged again, she carried with her the photo of Maggie, the picture frame dusty with age. She placed it next to the photo of her and Eric that sat on one of her shelves. She leaned back to survey her handiwork: Maggie, Eric, and herself. She smiled to herself; a sad, ironic smile. What she wanted now wouldn't fit in a box, couldn't be held by anything other than herself.

Terrific, she sighed. Maybe she could get a drink umbrella with her cocktail of self-pity. Somehow, she didn't think the folks at AA would agree.

She leaned back again into the cushions of her couch, her head falling back and her eyes closing. She listened to the sound of the rain as the second card lay in her lap; forgotten, unlabeled and unopened. She loved her family. This love was bound by birthright and by blood. But she didn't know how to love someone by choice. This love was bound by nothing, could slip through her fingers like water. The way she supposed Carter had.

She shut her eyes tighter. She had never trusted anyone in her entire life, let alone herself. But she trusted him. 

_Come home with me._

Abby opened her eyes.

*

Nothing happened when Carter flipped the light switch. Probably because of the storm, he thought, as he searched his apartment for candles. Blind, he set about the task of lighting the candles one by one, matches burning at his fingertips and firelight throwing his features into sharp relief.

His body longed for sleep, for the first sleep since the night he turned in his resignation and the first rest since a night much like this one: water, fierce and ravenous, lashing at the underbelly of a world gone mad, taking with it what it pleased. But his mind was restive, restless, on-edge and wide-awake, the memory of her smile pulsing as if it had a life of its own.

He was lighting the last candle when he heard the knock on his door.

He froze, the match falling from his fingertips and snuffing at his feet. Without checking to see who it was, he opened the door.

"Hi," Abby said. 

Carter released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Relief--and uneasiness. She didn't look that pleased to see him. In fact, she looked downright hostile. Nervous.

"What are you doing here?"

Abby was very still. "You invited me."

Carter hesitated, and then held the door open for her. "Come in."

"Right," Abby said, under her breath. As soon as she walked through the door her heart began to pound: she was seized by the same ominous feeling that had struck her in Luka's apartment, two weeks ago.

"Power's out," she heard him say, as he locked his door. "I hope you don't mind."

"I didn't come here for the cable TV."

"That's good to hear." Carter finished lighting the last candle. "Because there's nothing good on television."

"Right," Abby said, her mouth twisting into a soft smile, taking the razor-edge off her expression. "Vast wasteland, dehumanizing crap, blah blah blah."

Carter smiled too, in remembrance. Abby resisted the urge to touch him, to remind herself that he was really there.

"Why are you here?" he said.

Abby paused, waiting until her eyes had adjusted to the darkness so she could see his face. 

"I came because I thought you might need me."

There was a pause--very slight--before he answered.

"That's funny, because you weren't worrying about that"--he checked his watch--"an hour ago."

The color rose in her cheeks. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" Carter raised an eyebrow, slightly. "I don't think this is a matter of fairness."

"I don't know," Abby said, annoyed. "I don't think it's fair that you can't make up your mind."

His eyebrow shot up. "Me? _I_ can't make up _my_ mind? What about you and Luka?"

"What about me and Luka?" she shot back. "We're friends."

"That wasn't a very 'friendly' look he was giving you earlier today."

Abby shrugged. "We're learning to get over each other. Properly."

"Does that mean you're not over him?" Carter asked, point-blank.

"No," Abby said, after a moment, considering. "It just means that things were a lot easier when Senor Cuervo was around. And now it's just me."

Carter let out a low chuckle. 

Abby exhaled. It had become that much easier to breathe. "There is no me and Luka." She paused. "And if there was, it wouldn't be any of your business."

Carter looked at her; wistful, quiet. "It used to be."

"I know." Abby stared down at her hands. "Sometimes I miss those days."

"No, you don't."

She looked up at him. "Sometimes. Things were simpler, then. Easier."

Carter said nothing, merely leaned back until he was sitting on the arm of his couch and watching her as she paced. Partly out of nervous energy and partly to put some distance between them; she felt unreasonably jumpy.

"So what about you and Phil?" she asked, eventually.

"There is no me and Phil." 

Suddenly, Abby stopped pacing. "What? When did this happen?"

He felt her watching him, he felt himself burning beneath her piercing gaze. "A week ago. A month ago. I don't know. I think we both knew that something wasn't working. It just took awhile for one of us to put the nail in the coffin."

When she spoke, she sounded as if she was speaking from some place far away. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know," he said, at last, a horrible feeling of remorse washing over him as he realized that _he_ was the reason why she had run from him, not once but twice this night.

Abby stared at him. _"You don't know?"_

Carter gripped the couch behind him. "I should have."

"Don't you ever apologize?" Abby grumbled, and she began pacing again.

"Only when I'm wrong," Carter said. He paused, considering. "So, no. Never."

Despite herself, Abby laughed out loud.

"Look," Carter said, suddenly serious, silencing her laughter. "I'm sorry I never told you. I'm sorry I ignored you for the last two weeks. It's just--tonight's not the first time I've seen Alicia Holbrooke."

He heard the quieting of her footfalls. "It's not?"

"She came to County, two weeks ago. The night--"

"The night I said I loved you," Abby said for him, and he winced at the absolute matter-of-factness of her tone. "What did she want?"

Carter hesitated. "She wanted to apologize."

"Good. Now maybe you'll believe me when I say it's not your fault."

He stared at her, memorizing her features in the candlelight.

"Living is not a punishment," Abby said. "Dying is not the prize. Let the dead bury themselves, Carter. Don't throw yourself in after them."

"We speak from experience," Carter said, his voice soft and raspy and close. Very close. "You miss her."

"Maggie?" Abby stopped in front of him. "Of course. I almost--I almost _miss_ worrying about her. Eric's such a good kid, there's nothing left for me to worry about."

"Except yourself."

"Except that," she agreed, and then she stared him straight in the eye. "I love my job, I'm going to my meetings--I'm not doing such a bad job, you know."

"No," Carter agreed. "You're putting me to shame."

Abby smiled, sudden and solar, like sunrise, and before she could start pacing again he reached out and touched her--very gently--on the cheek.

"I'm making a deal," he said.

Abby froze. She felt pinned in place, like an insect caught under glass. "With who?" she whispered.

"God," Carter said, pulling her to him.

And then he was kissing her, his hands everywhere--grazing the side of her face, raking through her hair, coming to rest on he shoulders. He kissed her fiercely, he kissed her desperately, he kissed her as if it was their first time, as if it might be their last.

And she was kissing him back.

His mouth moved lower, brushed over the pulse jumping in her throat. Dizzily, Abby opened her eyes, her head fallen back, her body arching against his. She watched as candlelight cast their shadows onto the walls: she had fitted herself to him like a lover. Their bodies were already speaking a language their hearts were only beginning to comprehend.

Impatiently, she reached for his shirt. Starched and pressed, it was rough in her hands. She felt him smile against her when she fumbled with the buttons on his shirt.

"Nervous?" he whispered, grinning wickedly against the side of her mouth.

Breathless, she smiled back. "It's been a long time."

And then he was treated to the full wattage of her smile.

*

Abby awoke to darkness. Outside the rain was falling, falling--a cascade of needles shattering against the concrete of sidewalks and the glass of windows--but inside the room throbbed like a muffled heartbeat. Darkness and warmth pulsated behind the screen of quiet that shimmered just beyond the unmade bed and geometric cuts of light fell through the cracks in long, uneven bars of white. 

She stirred, and stifled a yawn, and turned to peer at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Its glowing red numbers glared at her, bright as a camera flash. Two-thirty.

Noiselessly, she slid out of bed. The soles of her feet recoiled almost immediately against the icy coldness of the hardwood floors and she had to bite down hard to suppress the cry that rose in her throat. Steeling her naked body against the chill, she groped the darkness surrounding the bed and gathered her things one by one before slipping into the bathroom. The door snicked shut behind her.

Overhead, the light flickered on. She squinted at the reflection in the cabinet mirror: eyes glassy with sleep, hair falling around her face, the creases and folds of bed sheets stamped upon the impressionable plane of her skin. Bleary-eyed, she balanced herself against the sink and searched this reflection, as if she expected to see a different person and was surprised to see the same face from yesterday staring back at her today. 

Eventually she became aware again of the sink, cold beneath the palms of her hands, and she threw the mirror door open.

She used his toothbrush to scour her mouth, the taste of sex and sleep soon masked by mint, and used her fingers to rake a makeshift comb through her hair. Five more minutes and a turtleneck was tugged over her head, jeans buttoned around her waist, and a pair of worn running shoes secure in her hands as she crept back into the bedroom, the light flickering off behind her.

She stood without apology at the end of the bed, his bed, barefoot with her hair tumbling around her face. Swathed in shadows, his body stood out like an irregular silhouette printed against the whiteness of his bed sheets. In the near-lightless spill of the room he was alternately darkness and pallor, shadow and light--the charcoal-colored hair, the half-moons smudged under his eyes, the grains of stubble penciling the side of his jaw. His skin glowed white where the moon touched it, as if a lens had gathered the radiance of all the light in the room and concentrated it upon the slopes and valleys of his body, and this same skin disappeared into nothingness where there was an absence of this light. 

Her eyes held the imprint of the moment in her mind, like a black and white photograph. As always, the narrow space between want and need was unfamiliar territory for her, all at once attractive and revolting. She felt an unbearable tension in her chest--as if all the air had suddenly vacated the room, taking her with it--but for the time being she resisted its pull. She wanted to remember what she had done. She needed to remind herself never to do it again. Had he seen her face in this moment, surely he would have pulled her back to bed, peeled the layers of clothing from her body, and buried himself in her to the hilt in protest, but she would have had none of it, anyway. It was not homecoming that tied them together, but imprisonment, in a cage with bars of light.

It hurt her eyes to stare so long. She did not let herself turn around again as she fled.

After all, better to feel nothing than to be broken.

*      *      *

CREDITS: The title of the chapter is from Jonathan Safran Foer's novel by the same name, while the title of the parts is borrowed from Milan Kundera's _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_. Song lyrics for Part One courtesy of Ryan Adams, and for Part Two courtesy of Coldplay. There are a couple of Buffy-isms in there but damned if I remember where they are. The scene at the El station is inspired by a scene in JD's _A Mouthful of Air _and the last scene is, of course, from the Prologue. (At last!)

This may be the last chapter, but it is not the last part. Keep your eyes out for the Epilogue (and Lengthy Acknowledgements).

Remember, folks: reading = reviewing. Thanks!


	12. Homecoming

TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (12/12)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: sockslesshotmail.com

CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK).

RATING: PG-13

SPOILERS: Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel _Through the Door._

ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: A final round of thanks to everyone who reviewed TBTS11: Lilkimi88, ceri, daburgh, not-so-dumb-blonde, mardia, enigma00, Fran, Lana, missa, ceb, heather, jakeschick, JD, and gotluka'scookies. The opening quotation is from Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese". Endnotes to come.

SUMMARY: The end, and the beginning.

;

EPILOGUE

Homecoming

_You do not have to be good.  
You do not have to walk on your knees  
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.  
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.  
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.  
Meanwhile the world goes on.  
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain  
are moving across the landscapes,  
over the prairies and deep trees,  
the mountains and the rivers.  
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air  
are heading home again._

;

He knows she is gone from the moment he wakes.

The morning has dawned cold and clear like glass, and the few clouds that linger are the fingerprints smudged against the horizon. Outside, the trees are starry with rainwater; their trunks wet and sparkling, their dark limbs sleeved in jewelry light. The shadows they cast sputter like a reel of film unwinding across her face, and across the place in his bed where she should be beside him.

He wakes with a crease on his face, a funny taste in his mouth. Outside, cars drive by (maybe they drive by her), and he hears the slice of their tires through gutter water, the staccato silence that follows. In the space of that silence he wishes for the sigh of mattress springs and the sound of her waking. He knows what it's like to fall asleep next to her, to close his eyes and to listen to her breathe. (He wonders when it became enough.) He imagines what it might be like to wake to her, their limbs splayed across the bed and each other, her hair stirring as she breathes, her eyelids fluttering as she wakes.

His cigarettes are gone. She must have taken them when she left, he thinks. In his head he can see it all too clearly: it's dark, she finds the half-empty pack by touch, and she pockets it with his lighter. She flees, not thinking, not feeling, breath coming fast, hands clenched inside her jacket pockets.

She walks quickly, because she knows she's made a terrible mistake. The wind cuts like a pair of silver shears at her lungs; she shivers. She doesn't know how to explain it to him. She doesn't even know if she _can_. In college she studied English--she can write tomes on the Odyssey and "To Marguerite" and James Joyce--but she can't have an honest conversation with herself to save her life (or his). How can she explain it to him, when she can't even explain it to herself?

In the bathroom he discovers that his toothbrush is still wet. (He feels faint, suddenly exhausted; it's the only part of her she's dared to leave behind.) The sink is cold and blindingly white beneath the palms of his hands; it's as if the sink is bleaching him to match as he feels the color drain from his face. Or maybe that's just the slow collapse of his heart. It's hard to tell, sometimes.

He is still holding the toothbrush when he slumps to the floor.

There are several things in her pockets: his cigarettes, her hands, a Christmas card in its envelope. The flap is undone, the seal is broken, and in a way it's Pandora's box. What's out is out; what's done cannot be undone. What's left is a word--a word she thought she buried with her mother, a word she thought she'd never live to see again.

(Of course. In college she studied English; she remembers what's left.)

He's done laughing. Or crying. Both. Finally, he raises his head (himself from the dead). He stands in front of his mirror and he stares at himself. Everything's broken, everything's gone. And he's got nothing left to hold on to but a piece of cheap plastic.

When he leaves he doesn't bother to brush his teeth. Just in case he can't find her.

She walks as fast as her legs can carry her. She fears she will collapse, she fears she hasn't much time. She fears. She veers--away from the river, down a street lined with apartments and trees. Every curtain is drawn, every shade is half-mast, like an eyelid heavy with sleep, and she sees herself mirrored in the windows. It almost surprises her. She's a heretic, a heathen who burns her books and her bridges, and she thinks that a person for whom gods are no more than rumor and faith is no more than hearsay should not cast so strong a reflection.

But she does, and she cannot help but catch glimpses of herself.

He walks with his head down. He keeps his fingers crossed the whole time.

The apartment is quiet, abandoned, stale with cigarette smoke and sleep when she enters. The door is unlocked. (She left it that way.) She walks through the door and sits at the edge of the bed. The mattress slopes under her weight, the weight of all her regrets and mistakes, dark things, things behind the sun.

But she waits with the sun on her face.

By the time he reaches her apartment the sun is strong and the sky is shot with gold. He shields his eyes but cannot see inside her window. So he pushes the buzzer--once, twice, three times in total--

He holds his breath.

He waits.

Her heart is pounding, her hands are in her lap. As is the card. Which she opens to read again; she's read it so many times she feels as if the sheer exertion of her effort has smudged the ink to fill the spaces between the lines on her skin. The way time expands to fill the space between her, and him. She watches it compress, fold in upon itself like an accordion. She tells herself _this is it_, and she knows they will never be the same again.

Nor would he want them to be.

One day she finds herself sitting on a bed that belongs to a man whose kindness she once repaid with cruelty, a man she once left, and she is holding a message from a man for whom kindness and cruelty have no meaning, a man who once left her. It is on that day she realizes love--a language so foreign to her, so cryptic--is a language like any other language, and can be learned.

And she hopes there is forgiveness enough for them all.

;

She does not answer the door.

How long he waits, he does not know. Eventually, he realizes that there is not enough time in the world he can wait to make her come to him. So he leaves, though he does not know where to go. Back, he supposes; it is the only way he knows.

Powerless, bereft, he walks along a river corrugated by the wind and past houses whose windows stir with the sound of children. His eyes never leave the ground--except for once. Wild geese fly overhead, their cries sharp in the cold clear air, and their wings cast shadows that race each other over the waters. He can hear them calling to each other even as he opens the door to his apartment.

He drops the keys he never used to lock his door on his coffee table, and he throws off a coat he doesn't bother to watch land. Blindly, he makes his way to the bedroom, to a room that once held him, her, everything. He realizes he never once thought of her as his, he never once let himself.

But now that she is gone he decides to let himself pretend. Just this once.

And it goes something like this.

He imagines them happy. He imagines lazy afternoons. Sundays. An old rowboat. The one that belonged to his grandfather. He imagines them flinging their arms over its weathered sides. Dangling their hands in the water, leaving trails like fireflies, love and the whir of dragonflies in their ears. He imagines the way she tilts her head, in that way of hers that borders on the defiant. He imagines the way she raises an eyebrow when she sees him. Her eyes are wide and curious, her lips slightly parted, her bones full of fear and wonder when she looks at him.

No, really, she is looking at him.

His eyes snap open, and suddenly he is looking at her back.

It seems a long time before either of them says anything. She's sitting on the bed, his bed, with a card full of creases and a lapful of stolen cigarettes. He thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Until she smiles. A real smile, with some sadness in it, but mostly happiness--and, when she speaks, not a little bit of irony.

"What took you so long?"

FIN.


	13. ENDNOTES

**Endnotes**

(Or, In Which C. Would Like to Thank the Academy)

It's been two years since the characters of Carter, Abby, Luka, and Susan got under my skin, and got me to do something I thought I would never do: write fanfiction. What began as one multi-chapter fic quickly snowballed into six fics and over 100,000 words to date. There's plenty of thanks (and blame!) to go around:

-**JD, **who earns top billing because she is--more than anyone else--single-handedly responsible for sucking me into the ER fandom. To borrow a page from the book of Carter, I'm a better writer because of you.

-**jakeschick****,** for the kind of unwavering encouragement only a fandom mom can provide. Go Hawkeyes!

-**Charli**, for doing a yeoman's job in beta-reading the last couple of chapters (all typos and inconsistencies are solely the fault of the author), and for constantly amazing me with the quality of her reviews (good things do come to those who wait!).

-**the LJers**! you know who you are, and you make the ER fandom go round.

-**anyone and everyone who has ever read and reviewed TTD/TBTS. **From Emma, who gave me my very first review ever, to all of you who provided instant gratification at the release party for the epilogue--my ego thanks you. Each and every review kept me going in the year and a half (!) it took for me to write TBTS; each and every one of you made this journey a little less lonely and a little more worth it. You guys are the best.

So. What happened to Phil? Are Jack Carter's days numbered? Did Luka build a bridge and get over Abby? How often can Susan get away with saying 'I told you so' before she gets smacked down? What was written in that Christmas card? So is Abby with Carter or what? I know the Epilogue leaves lots more unresolved than it settles, but (1) I was never terribly fond of tidy endings, and (2) it leaves the door open for the possibility of a sequel.

That being said--at the moment there are no plans to write the third part of what was going to be a trilogy. Partly because I'm burnt out, partly because I anticipate a sharp decline in my free time, and partly because my interest in ER isn't what it used to be. My apologies.

But if I've learned anything from the past two years, it's to never say never. In the meantime, there are a couple of TTD/TBTS-related ficlets on the way (including those 500 words from Chapter Ten) and some outtakes to post on the LJ. So stay tuned.

Finally, thanks to the only two characters who have ever gotten deep enough under my skin for me to welcome them into my head. They deserve their own little happily ever--at least in my universe, even if they never find it on the show.

For two years and all the blessings that came with it--

**Thank You.**

-C.  
05.28.04 


End file.
